With a Little Help from My Friends
by Lucy Lupin
Summary: It is his final year at Hogwarts and mischievous mutual friends are plotting to get Arthur Weasley and feisty Molly Morag together. They don't have a lot to do with each other until a death affects someone they care about. Mostly OotP compatible.
1. Baby, You Can Drive My Car

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * * 

Author's Note:A Molly/Arthur fic set in the swinging sixties. You read plenty of fanfiction on how James and Lily got together, but I thought Arthur and Molly may also have an interesting story to tell, so "With a Little Help from My Friends" was born. I wanted this to happen to the point where I will actually write a Gryffindor-centric fic, which was something I swore that would never happen. 

The first four chapters were written and published **prior to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix**. So while I have done my best to rectify my version of events to J K Rowling's, this does account for some minor discrepancies. 

Dedicated to the lovely Shewhodares, who has become something of a beta for this fic, and Adele, who finally managed to explain to this techno-phobe how to format documents to get bold and italic fonts. A redhead needing a blonde to explain something to her, now I really am ashamed. ;p

Rating:Will be a "R". Mainly for language (swearing in French - Lucille/Thierry have a love-hate relationship, the best kind in fanfic), and some, er, interesting scenes later. 

Disclaimer:I own nothing. Including in the monetary sense. Therefore it is pointless suing me. Mary Quant is a 1960s designer (the inventor of the miniskirt) and a real person. I hope she wouldn't mind me name-checking her in this piece. This disclaimer applies to all proceeding chapters. The title for this chapter is from a Beatles song.

Now, on with the show!

****

* * * * * 

Chapter One: Baby, You Can Drive My Car

__

Dearest Ronnie, the letter read, _I am totally tripping here. For the sake of what is left of my already dubious level of personality sanity, you have to figure out a way to get Arthur Weasley off my case. When will these bloody men ever learn to take a hint? _

Seventh year Veronica Vector grinned and burrowed deeper into the armchair that nestled in the corner of her family's living room. The Arthur Weasley in question was not, as the tone of her fellow Gryffindorian Lucille Black's letter would have her believe, a stalker or an unwanted admirer (he was certainly "unwanted," but not in the romantic sense), but an adorable gangling redhead who perhaps needed a few more social graces. Veronica took a sip of her cup of tea and read on.

__

Ever since Da got permission from the Ministry to make Muggle electrical appliances compatible with Hogsmeade' magic pocket in our house, he's been hanging around like a bad case of Trollpox. "Lucille, let's go watch Top of the Pops," "Lucille, when are you going to buy the new Beatles single?" "Lucille, can I take apart the radio to see how it works? I promise I'll put it back together properly this time." He's listened to my copy of "A Hard Days Night" so often that the record no longer has grooves on it (Ronnie, a record is a flat, circular object Muggles put music on and the grooves are what they use to separate each song). If I go on I'd be forced to self-administer the memory alteration charm. And DON'T even ask me about his "summer project." Although I have to say, Ma has had more fun cleaning up the place since he successfully charmed the Hoover (a large rectangular rubber and metal object that Muggles use for sweeping) to fly like a broom so she can ride around on top of it. But that's the only silver lining in a very bleak and stormy-looking cloud.

Veronica chuckled at the mental picture of bumbling Arthur poking cheerfully around the Black's Hogmeades cottage, with Lucille standing by in her customary pose of arms folded across her chest, lips pursed in poorly concealed exasperation and foot tapping impatiently. Lucille was her best friend at Hogwarts, along with Arthur, and definitely a "goblet half-empty" person. Although to be fair to Lucille, Veronica reflected, having six year old Sirius Black as a younger brother and James Potter as his best friend could do that to a girl. And whatever Arthur's "summer project" turned out to be, Veronica was sure that it would result in the deduction of many points from Gryffindor house once he took to parading it around the school.

__

He's just obsessed with Muggles, Ronnie! Lucille's letter continued in frustration. _He'd adopt one and keep it in a cage if he could. I mean, at least I'm only obsessed with four of them, and when I bring their records in to Hogwarts next week you'll see (and hear) why. Next Sunday can't come soon enough. It's a good thing that Diana McGonagall is Head Girl this year; she'll at least keep him in check. I wonder who the new Head Boy is?_

Ronnie, I have to go now. I took the precaution of attaching another hand to the family clock for Arthur, and it says that he's on his way over here now. I never thought I'd say this, but it's a good thing Ma forced me at wandpoint to clean up my wardrobe last Friday, because that's where I'm going to hide for a while. No, Ronnie, I'm not just being negative, it really IS that bad. He really needs a woman.

Counting down the days to term (never thought I'd say that either),

Lucille Black

PS. You can have Sirius. I'd take older brothers over younger ones any day. Regalus, however, is a little angel.

Veronica started to laugh so hard that she had to put her cup down on the coffee table for fear of spilling tea over Lucille's and the other two letters that had arrived today. The mental picture of her crossed-armed friend suffering in silence as Arthur ransacked her house had been replaced by one of Lucille crouching down in the bottom of her wardrobe, gritting her teeth as outside Arthur made himself comfortable on her bed and started flipping through her Beatles records. And how ironic that Lucille, whose signature phrase was "A woman without a man is like a fish without a broomstick," recommended a girlfriend as the solution to all of Arthur's problems.

Eventually she calmed down enough to begin reading the second letter. It turned out to be from Thierry Delacour, Arthur's closest (and only) male friend.

__

Chere Veronica,

J'espere that cette letter finds you well. (Thierry's native tongue was French, and he had a habit of slipping into it without thinking). _I am very eager for the start of term. Molly complains about "her" sisters. At least elles ne sont pas part-Veela. Ce bon news is that nous avez just finished moving into our new house just outside of London, and mon pere has decided that since I will be turning eighteen cette annee, I can have the old servants' cottage down the bottom of le jardin - far away from mes soeurs Veela! Arthur may have mentioned that I am to be ce Quidditch captain nouveau this season. _

Veronica bit back a grin. Thierry himself had been mentioning - boasting would be more accurate - that he was to be the Gryffindor team's captain whenever an opportunity presented itself. And when opportunities did not present themselves, he made them.

__

After the Sorting Feast when we arrive next week, I have an important announcement to make dans le common room. Je desire especialment pour you and Molly to be there. It concerns you two and the rest of the Gryffindor girls.

A bientot,

Ton ami Thierry

For the first time that morning, Veronica frowned. Even this frown was one of concentration rather than annoyance. Since only boys could and had ever been able to play Quidditch for their house teams, she had no idea why Thierry's announcement (most probably about team tryouts) would be relevant to the female half of the scarlet house. She shrugged this query aside and turned to her final letter, which had the address made out in Molly's scrawled handwriting.

__

My dearest Veronica,

Thanks for your offer of the lift to Kings Cross, but since Lucille is picking me up on the way, I don't need it. She says she knows how to use the Muggle transportation system. We'll see about that. I feel very grown-up, finding my own way to the station without the rest of the Morag clan! Rhiannon will be a third year this year, and Elspeth will be the final Morag to study at Hogwarts, at least until the next generation. We're hoping she's sorted into Gryffindor, but honestly anything other than Slytherin is fine with me.

I visited Lucille in Hogmeades last week. Sirius has been flooing her around the bend. When I was there he and James Potter somehow charmed the covers of those strange circular things she owns to give the four dudes on them acne and make them look like they were wearing straightjackets instead of slacks and turtlenecks. Poor Lucille screamed at them for about ten minutes. She says your friend Arthur Weasley also doesn't need a ride since he is finding his own way to Kings Cross, but got touchy (no surprise there) when I asked for details. She doesn't seem to like talking about him anymore. Do you think she fancies him? Now "that" would be funny. 

As far as the lift thing goes, Thierry is fine, too. Knowing him, he probably learnt how to Apparate when he was seven or is an Amigalus on the sly. I imagine he'd make a fetching rat. Only joking, you know I love him.

Speaking of rats, I've been something of a Diana (a bookworm) over this summer trying to avoid a certain Slytherin snake whose name will not be mentioned least it traumatises my quill for life. I know I don't have it as bad as Thierry since mine are not part-Veela, just real witches, but since staying at home means I have to put up with being the middle child of four sisters, it certainly shows what I think of him! On a more positive note (that part will tell you this letter isn't from Lucille, if nothing else will) I'm really excited about this year. Only two more left me and one for you, and we'll have joint electives this time around! Muggle Studies should be a blast. Let's just hope Arthur isn't in it, Lucille's been telling me all about what he's like with them. Joking again, I'm sure he'd be rather sweet if I only knew him a little better.

Love ya,

Molly Morag

Carefully folding up Molly's letter and placing it next to those from Lucille and Thierry, Veronica sat quietly. To find Veronica still was very rare, but even in such a miraculous moment, her mind was speeding away like a Nimbus broomstick. This state of apparent stillness lasted only a minute or two, then her eyes lit up and with quick, resolute movements, she took up a quill and parchment and started scribbling out a reply to one of the letters, all the while grinning from ear to ear.

__

Dear Lucille,

In regards to your suggested solution for the problem that is our dear, single friend Arthur Weasley, I think I know just the Gryffindor…

* * * * *

One week later Thierry Delacour was loitering at the gateway of his family's new country estate, his cases and owl, Emmanuel, stacked precariously to the mailbox. Thierry and his father, Philippe, were absolutely fascinated by the mailbox. To their knowledge, Muggles had never used owls as a means of correspondence, yet once every once in a while, mysterious slips of paper would appear in the tiny tin rectangle, displaying such things as "Mary Quant Sale, 50 % OFF!" or "Brycleam Special: Buy one, get one free." 

The Mary Quant slip of paper in particular was extraordinary. It featured three Muggle women (all of who were thin and very attractive) wearing skirts that ended a good half foot above their knees and smiling daintily for the camera. Thierry had no idea which of these women was Mary Quant, and why anyone would want to sell someone who was such a fox. He had tried asking the women in the photo which of them was Mary, and had also tried moving the paper from side to side to see if they would move, but they stayed as still as - not statues, since the ones in his hall moved around from time to time - but as someone who had been hit by the Impedimus curse. Muggle women had incredible willpower, Thierry reflected pensively. The picture had been his for three months now, and they hadn't moved once. Or perhaps they "really" had an Impedimus curse on them? Perhaps that's why whoever owned them wanted to sell them; they were less valuable now that they couldn't move around anymore. Thierry's nose wrinkled in disgust. He didn't agree with people owning other people, particularly women, in the first place. Women weren't like house elves that liked to be owned. Lack of freedom crushed their spirit. Nothing earned respect towards the fairer sex like having a Veela mother and two part-Veela sisters, he reflected with no small amount of irony. And he really should talk to his father, who was the ambassador for the French Ministry of Magic, about doing something to stop the cruelty some wizards showed towards Muggles.

The shrilling of a bird brought him out of his reverie. Thierry glanced around, realising that he had been standing at the foot of this strange pathway leading up to his home for almost half an hour and Arthur still hadn't shown up. He had expected his fellow seventh year to arrive by the Floo network, but for some reason Arthur had insisted on meeting him outside his front gate. Thierry wasn't overly concerned. Much to the punctual Lucille's annoyance, Arthur ran on Arthur time. This meant that according to his schedule, if Arthur arrived this very second, he would be ten minutes early.

Lucille Black. Thierry's brown eyes, which normally showed an expression of polite interest and a sort of intellectual compassion, darkened in bemusement, even resentment. On paper, out of all his Hogwarts friends, she should have been the one that he got on with the best. She was part French on her mother's side and while not competent to the point of fluency, spoke enough of the language to make herself understood. But relationships did not occur on paper. 

He and Lucille had been on friendly terms until his fourth year, when suddenly she had changed on him. At times her behaviour towards him could be nice, almost kind, but then she would act as though being nice was all wrong and revert back to her usual congeniality. And he could not figure out what he had done to cause this. Had his friendships towards Veronica Vector and sixth year Molly Morag changed in the same manner, he may have pondered if it was down to him, but they were still just as easy-going and sociable around him as they were with Arthur Weasley, or for that matter, Lucille herself. His conclusion was then, that there was something about him and only him that Lucille found distasteful. At first this had hurt him, but as time went on and he could not induce her to change her behaviour, he resolved to ignore it and get along with her for the sake of their mutual friends. It was true that he _still_ considered her his friend, but only because he was friends with Veronica, Arthur and Molly, and that invariably meant being friends with Lucille. She was not a friend by choice, but rather by circumstance or default.

As he eventually did when he was thinking of Lucille, Thierry both physically and mentally shrugged off his pondering. He had not made the Quidditch team captaincy by being negative or dwelling on things, and he was a cheerful boy that was both liked and respected by his peers. Arthur was now late, even by his standards. Oh well. If his classmate didn't show up soon, Thierry could always Apparate to Kings Cross and appear discretely in a cubicle somewhere in the men's toilets. Arthur would figure it out. It was illegal for wizards to do this self-teleportation trick prior to their eighteenth birthdays and completely outlawed for pregnant witches of any age, but Arthur, along with Veronica, was half of the pair of people that knew that Thierry had mastered Apparation sometime in his fifth year. Yes, Arthur would be fine…

__

BANG!

"_Zut alors_!" He fell back into his pile of possessions from the sudden impact, causing Emmanuel to squark in frightened indignation. The strangest thing he had ever seen had appeared in front of him. It was about the size of two ponies put together and was pale blue in colour, with two heavy-looking black circles embedded in each side. And seated through a glass window in the front of the object was Arthur Weasley. His glasses had been knocked askew and he was waving cheerfully.

"_Sacred Bleu_!" Thierry recovered from his shock and began to laugh. "Oo 'ave surprised me, man, and considerin' zat I did not bat one eyeleed when yer curse backfired on Lucius Malfoy last year an' oo were vomiting slugs _pour un_ hour, zat ees quite an accomplishment."

"Yes, the Sacred Blue," Arthur agreed. During their six years of friendship (and perhaps because he "was" friends with Arthur Weasley) Thierry had uttered this phrase so much that he had eventually translated it to Arthur. "That's what I've decided to name her. It's a type of car Muggles call a Beetle. Isn't she beautiful?"

"Kar?" Thierry repeated, blinking in the bright sunlight. "Bee-tel?" 

"I've been working on her all summer. She can fly and, Thierry, watch this - or don't watch, because if it works properly you won't be able to see anything." Comprehension suddenly dawned upon Thierry, who had been smiling politely in bemusement during the last part of Arthur's ramble, as the car disappeared, then reappeared a second later. "Zat was amaseeing! Ow did oo do zat?" he asked.

"Invisibility button," Arthur said, tapping the dashboard proudly. "Installed it myself." Then, as if it was something that needed to be said, he added, wide-eyed. "_Muggle cars don't have them, you know_."

"_Exactement_?" Thierry said, feigning surprise. "_Bien sur_, but 'ow-"

"Ah, now that would be telling," the redhead said, playfully wagging a finger from side-to-side like Diana McGonagall was wont to do. "Now watch this. It's as close to magic as Muggles get." He eased his lanky form out of the automobile, then put an object that Thierry recognised as a key in its front. There was a small "pop," and a wide, empty space appeared where the lid of the car had been. "_Amazing_ how they figure out how to get around without magic. Genius, really."

"Arthur," Thierry began, shaking his head, "ow on earth do oo get avay weeth charming all zese Muggelle _objets_ without landeeng yerself in front of de Ministairee?"

"Connections, my dear friend, connections," Arthur beamed as he began to load Thierry's luggage into the compartment. "Befriending a Black can come in handy sometimes." Lucille's father, Hector Black, was quite high up in the Ministry of Magic and the family itself had a lot of prestige. Arthur saw the brief look that passed across the French boy's face and added gently, "Admittedly, she doesn't show the same side around me that she does around you."

"Zat ees jost as well," Thierry added darkly. "Eef she did, oo would die of shock."

* * * * *

"Molly, we need to get a move on," Lucille Black puffed as she heaved her last suitcase onto her trolley. Sweat had appeared at her hairline. "It's twenty-to already, we're too young to Apparate and the train doesn't wait, you know. And do you know what the truly crazy thing is? Arthur Weasley and I both live in Hogsmeade, which is only an hour away from school, yet we're still required to travel by train from LONDON with everyone else. That's bureaucracies for you."

"Well, we would have arrived in plenty of time if we hadn't needed to wait for a cab large enough to hold our luggage and that thing you insist on carting around with you," Molly shot back. Lucille was in rant mode and normally she'd know better than to argue with her, but it was a hot, frustrating day. "What the hell is it, anyway?"

"A record player," Lucille said with the manner of a proud parent. "It plays all my records. My _Beatles _records."

Behind her Molly rolled sea green eyes. The last part of the sentence explained everything insane the other girl had been doing over the summer. "Lucille, you can't use Muggle appliances in Hogwarts. The magic makes them work all wonky. Arthur Weasley has explained that to you a number of times."

"It's funny you should mention him." An obsessive gleam had come into Lucille's eyes. "He's going to be the one to _make _it work. If he can take care of his "summer project" - which only I'm allowed to mention, understand - he can certainly deal with a little thing like this." Molly looked dubiously down at the steel piece of equipment and the two massive brown boxes, which were covered with a sort of fabric at the front. They didn't look like "little things" to her. "And then he'll get it to go, and then we'll be able to play all my records, and then, _maybe _then, you'll finally be able to understand me."

"Lucille," Molly shook her head ruefully, "I will never understand you, and I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing." Molly was just over five feet tall, and plump but not obese by any means. She was also extremely pretty, with a pert little nose and lightly freckled skin that currently sported a summer tan and made her green eyes all the more striking. 

"Philistine," Lucille huffed, but a smile was cracking at the corner of her mouth. She was an inch or so taller than Molly but much thinner, and without her friend's curves. Their slight height difference was accentuated by the butterscotch leather boots she insisted on wearing, much to her mother's annoyance. In contrast to Molly, whose appearance gave the impression of cuteness and accessibility, Lucille's classical beauty made her remote and aloof. Her fine clothes and immaculate grooming further reinforced that perception. It was only the select few closest to her who knew the existence of her wry, self-depreciating wit and warm smile beneath the cool demeanour. Her eyes were the same brown as the rest of the Black clan (a fact which she often bemoaned) and having ventured outdoors as seldom as possible, in contrast to Molly she had virtually no freckles. In her childhood her hair had been red, like Molly's, but had darkened to a shade closer to brown. Yet another example of their youthful similarities, erased by upbringing and time.

"So, let me get this right," Molly backtracked. "You've been owling me all summer complaining about the amount of time Arthur's been spending at your place, pouring through all your Muggle artifacts-"

"_Artifacts_?" Lucille looked mortally offended.

"-You've taken to hiding in the bottom of your wardrobe when he comes by," Molly continued unfazed. "You've forbidden me on pain of the Cruciatus curse to mention the dreaded "summer project," yet now you're going to ask him to make one of your Muggle things work at Hogwarts? Lucille, darling, if you want to keep the stray cat away, why do you leave a saucer of milk outside your front door?"

"Yeah…well…" Lucille gave a pained, sheepish smile. "Look, I know I'm kind of stupid about these guys," she gestured to the box of records in front of her, "but you haven't _heard _them play."

Molly gave a cursory look down at the four smiling young men on the top of a stack of incredibly thin, square packages on Lucille's trolley. She thought it wasn't so much as "hearing" them as "seeing" them that had her friend in such a laver. _If you can't beat them, join them_, she decided. "The one in the bottom right corner's kind of cute."

"Paul McCartney?" Lucille glanced at the record cover. "Nah, man, it's all about John Lennon. He's the intellectual and the visionary. Paul's just the face."

"But what a face it is," Molly quipped.

They had reached the doors that led out to the platforms. When the two girls approached a teenager was lounging nearby, but quickly got up to pull the door open for them. Molly cringed inwardly, knowing what was to follow.

Sure enough, Lucille was on her game. "What are you doing?" she challenged the poor boy. "Do you think women are idiots, then? We may not be as big and strong as you are, but we can bloody well open the stupid doors by ourselves!"

"Just chill out, baby," the youth said with a just-trying-to-help shrug.

"Don't call me baby!" Lucille cried shrilly after him.

"What did you do that for?" Molly asked her. "He was only offering us some help, and we could have done with it, to be honest." They now had to go onto the platform by backing out of the door, thus using their bulk to hold it open, and pull their trolleys in after them. Molly's only consolation was that the other girl, being much lighter, would find this much harder than she was presently.

"Bloody men," Lucille muttered. "They think we're beneath us, and it's up to us to bend over backwards to try and prove otherwise! We have to work twice as hard to be thought of as being half as good as they are, you know."

"Which is why you went crazy at the Mary Quant sale and bought three minis that barely go down over your hips," Molly replied, grinning. Through trial and error she and Veronica had learnt that the best way to deal with Lucille's mood swings was through humour, rather than babying her like Arthur or being drawn into a debate like Thierry. Sometimes the urge to argue back was overwhelming. Despite their closenessthey had very different upbringings, with Lucille's bohemian mother and wealth affording her a liberated lifestyle that was denied to Molly. Which wasn't to say that Molly didn't agree with a lot of what her friend said, especially about the role of women in the world. She just thought her friend sometimes went the wrong way about things.

"Yeah, well, you have to agree it's pretty stupid not to let us do things like play Quidditch," Lucille insisted, but appeared slightly mollified. "I mean, if anything we should be better on a broom then they are. Because we carry our weight around our hips and they have it around their shoulders, we have a lower centre of gravity than they do, so we should have an easier time keeping our balance."

"So what went wrong with you then?" Molly joked. "Not only do you have the smallest pair of hips I have ever seen, but honey, you're shit on a broom." After their last day of compulsory flight classes in their first year, Lucille had been so relieved that she had chopped up her broomstick and given to the house elves for firewood, much to the ire of her father. "And speaking of Quidditch, Ronnie and I received the strangest owl from Thierry last week."

Molly watched her friend's reaction carefully as she said this. Sure enough, Lucille's chin came up and her lips drew into a taut, defiant line. Nope, she hadn't lost any of her animosity towards the dark-haired French boy over the summer.

"Thierry's letter said that he was planning to make an announcement about Quidditch after dinner - you remember how Alexander Wood made him captain before he graduated - and that he wanted Ronnie and I and the rest of the Gryffindor girls to be there because it concerned us," Molly continued. "What do you make of that?"

"Probably wants us to make a Gryffindor lion banner by needlepoint or something," Lucille shrugged. Molly was not fooled by her attempt at nonchalance. "Nothing doing from my corner."

"Would you want to play Quidditch if you could?" Molly asked her. Lucille shook her head firmly. "So, what's your problem, then?"

That threw Lucille for an instant, but she recovered quickly. "It's just the principle of it, that's all. Sure, nothing short of a Dementor could entice me to get on one of those things again, but to be told we're not allowed to do it, well, I'd like to at least be given the choice, if you see what I mean."

"Yeah, you've got a point there," Molly conceded, then broke into a grin. "Besides, being not only Irish but a redhead, I'm sure I would make one hell of a Beater!"

Lucille laughed along with her, then broke off, her skin turning a Nearly-Headless-Nick shade. "Bloody hell, I can't believe it's happening now. Moll, I have to go to the lavs."

"Now?" Molly hissed. "The train leaves in ten minutes."

"Look, it's," Lucille glanced around then inclined her head closer to Molly's,"_bad timing_ for me, you know?"

"Oh." Molly's face cleared in understanding. "What a day for it to happen, too, it's so stinking hot. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'll just make do with tissues and toilet paper until we get onto the train," Lucille whispered. "Besides, Diana has probably got stuff with her. That woman would be prepared for a giant invasion, she's like a fucking girl guide."

"What's a girl guide?" Molly asked.

"Nevermind, ask Arthur when he gets here. Just be a doll and see that my stuff gets onto the train, alright? Thanks, hon." With that she flipped her long, fashionably side-parted hair over her shoulder and ran off.

Molly sighed and began loading things from Lucille's trolley onto her own, taking care to place the girl's precious Beatles records on top of the pile. She would have rather had Lucille explain the term "girl guide" to her than Arthur. Unless people wanted a Binns' length lecture they generally avoided mentioning the M-U-G-G-L-E word around him, but that couldn't be helped. Lucille was a girl with a mission and a half-priced Mary Quant skirt to preserve.

* * * * *

"Molly Morag, what is the meaning of this?"

The crisp voice of the newly-anointed Head Girl, Diana McGonagall, cut through Veronica's thoughts as she sat curled up next to the window in her compartment, one finger twirling idly with a strand of dark chocolate hair and another bookmarking _Arithmancy: Advanced Edition_. Her classmates thought she was mad, but she genuinely found the subject fascinating. Outside Molly appeared to be suffering through an Azkaban-worthy interrogation.

"But Diana, these aren't mine," Molly protested. Across from her towered Diana. In contrast to Molly's loose, frantic looking curls, her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Despite the heat she looked cool and collected. "This is all of Lucille's stuff. She asked me to put it in the holding carriage for her, you see."

"Asked you to put it in the holding carriage?" Diana repeated. "Molly, are you her slave?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Molly grumbled.

"Well?" Diana pressed.

"Look, it's…" Molly leaned forward and started whispering to Diana, who had to buckle at the knees to hear her. Veronica couldn't catch everything, but heard "wrong time of the month" and "lousy weather." When they pulled apart, some of the Head Girl's demeanour had thawed a little, and Molly was looking notably relieved.

"Very well, then," Diana said, obviously concluded the hushed conversation they had just shared. "I understand these thing happen from time to time. But at her age she really should be more organised. Now do put everything away quickly. The train is due to depart at any moment now."

Molly nodded and scooted off. Veronica's nose wrinkled in amusement. Diana's personal conduct didn't whisper "Authority," it cast a Sonorous charm and screamed it from the highest Quidditch stadium stand.

Presently footsteps were heard outside her carriage. The door slid open and Diana's head emerged. "Veronica Vector. Mind if I have a word?"  
  
"Certainly, take a seat," Veronica told her. "Not literally, of course."

Diana entered and sat down, arranging crisp black robes as she did so. Veronica hadn't seen her with so much as a crease during her entire time at Hogwarts, and as fellow house students in the same year, they had classes together almost all day. Presently the Head Girl gave her a signature searching look. "You know, Veronica, that I only put my name down for Head Girl once I was absolutely sure that the work it entails would not have a negative impact on my NEWT results come end of year. What I cannot understand is why such a resourceful, well-liked young woman such as yourself did not apply for such a position."

"Ah, you know me, Di," Veronica shrugged good-naturedly. Diana visibly flinched at the nickname, but said nothing. "Prefects more my speed. All of the privileges but none of the responsibility." Diana, who had been the female Gryffindor prefect last year, had a look on her face that suggested she found what Veronica had just said positively blasphemous. The brunette found this amusing. She liked Diana, but was not immune to the temptation of messing with the new Head Girl's head from time to time.

"Well, with both Professor Dumbledore's and Headmaster Kyte's personal blessing, I am sure you are the right woman for the job," Diana continued, then, to Veronica's great surprise, allowed herself a small smile. "Bearing in mind the identity of this year's Head Boy, any help would be greatly appreciated."

"Diana, who _is_ this year's Head Boy?" Veronica inquired politely, trying to keep how much she was dying to know out of her voice.

"That will be revealed after the sorting ceremony," Diana said primly, then turned on her heel and walked out.

Veronica was sure she heard a chuckle from the corridor.

Seconds later Diana's footsteps were met by another pair. "Is everything in order, Molly?" Veronica heard her ask.

"Yes, thank you, Diana," Molly's voice replied. "I won't ever have that much luggage again. This was a one-off, I assure you." Veronica quickly smothered a chuckle. The start of the year was always the same old routine. Every summer Arthur Weasley came back taller, and Molly's suitcases increased in girth.

"Glad to be of assistance. And, Molly, when Lucille does see fit to board the train, do tell her that I have some things that may be useful. I am not due for a couple of weeks myself, but bearing my responsibilities it does pay to have them around, especially with these younger girls that may find themselves unprepared."

"Of course, Diana. Thank you." Soon Molly was plopping down onto the seat opposite her, wiping stray curls off her forehead. "Do you keep on having to remind yourself not to call her "Madame," or am I just going insane?"

"I have that problem too," Veronica nodded sombrely, "and yes, you are going insane." Both girls laughed. "Commuting to Kings Cross with Lucille can do that to you, though. I forgive you. So, how is your fellow fiery redhead?"

"Still determined to hate Thierry," Molly shrugged. "Call me crazy-"

"I do. On a regular basis," Veronica grinned.

"-But in a parallel universe I think they would make a great couple."

"That could happen," Veronica nodded. "Tragically, though, this is not a parallel universe." Besides, she had enough on her plate trying to find Arthur a woman, and it was always useful to have at least one single male friend in case Balls decided to manifest themselves, she found. Veronica returned to the present where Molly, her face still flushed from having to pile both her and Lucille's belongings into the hold, was launching into an animated tale of her younger sister Rhiannon attempting to charm a pimple off her face and misplacing her own nose.

Yes, Molly Morag could be very good for Arthur Weasley. The question was, though, could Arthur ever be good for Molly?


	2. Lucille in the Sky with Dumb Guys

****

With a Little Help from my Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Disclaimer: Some minor incidents reflect things that have happened to characters' young incarnations in J K Rowling's work. I did this to create a link from one generation to the next, and I'm sure you'll recognise these parts when you see them. The song Lucille sings belongs is called "Brown-Eyed Girl" and belongs to Van Morrison. The line "_she closed herself up like a fan_" is taken from the Susan Vega song, "The Soldier and the Queen." The title of this chapter is a pun on a Beatles song.

****

* * * * *

Chapter Two: Lucille in the Sky with Dumb Guys

As Veronica and Molly sat chatting in a compartment of the Hogwarts' Express, Lucille was tugging her skirt back down over her hips, a relieved grin on her face. Her clothes showed no visible sign of her affliction and as further damage control, she had charmed her Mary Quant skirt black and was congratulating herself on her resourcefulness. She only hoped that Diana would be able to charm it back to its original colour later, as she had been rather fond of that print.

When Lucille emerged from her cubicle, the woman applying lip gloss in front of the mirror was still there. Their eyes met and they both smiled. "Funny, I could have sworn that when you went in, you were wearing a bright blue skirt with green and yellow plaid. Strange that."

"Well, I'm out here and very much in a black skirt," Lucille said, gesturing down at her outfit. "Although I hear this fluorescent lighting can be notoriously harsh on the retina."

"Hmm," the woman nodded, reaching into her handbag. As Lucille bent over the sink to wash her hands, she sneaked one last look at the woman. Her bathroom companion had pulled out a bottle of prescription pills and was reading the label carefully. She fought down the urge to laugh. Arthur was right. Muggles were cute sometimes.

* * * * *

"So, Arthur, what ees to be done about zis car?"

Arthur and Thierry had successfully navigated central London (Arthur had insisted on driving, not flying, Sacred Blue because it added to the experience) and parked the Volkswagon down a side street next to the station. Thierry was carefully lifting his beloved Silver Arrow out of the bonnet when it had occurred to him that Arthur could not take the car with him.

"Don't worry, I've already considered that," Arthur said cheerfully. That his brilliant but absent-minded friend had planned far enough in advance to actually decide what to do about the car not only showed how much he was infatuated with it, but was nothing short of miraculous, Thierry reflected. "Hector Black will pick it up on his way back from work this afternoon. He said he's going into the office to catch up on some paperwork, so it's no trouble." Arthur tapped the side of his nose. "Connections again, you see."

"_Right_." Thierry shrugged and tucked Emmanuel under one arm, then picked up his broomstick and suitcase with the other. It was ironic that Arthur, with his loathing of the superficial, had befriended one of the most influential pureblood families in Britain.

It was ten to by the time they reached the station. This was largely because Thierry kept on having to prod and push Arthur along, who was stopping every few feet to exclaim over the miraculous nature of the Muggle world. "Look, Thierry, that's a dummy in that baby's mouth! That's what they use to keep it from crying instead of the Pacifius charm! How _extraordinary_!" Thierry was relieved to find the station empty. Well, mostly empty.

A petite blonde woman in her thirties was scurrying up to them, her eyes wide with worry. Thierry's eyes widened in appreciation. Arthur saw this and elbowed him. "Excuse me," she gasped. "Have you seen a little redhaired girl about this high-" she make a gesture near her waist "-and wearing a yellow dress with a collar?"

Arthur shook his head apologetically. "Where was the last place you remember seeing her?" he asked.

He was attempting to be helpful, but the worry in the woman's eyes only increased. "I don't know where she could be. She knows not to wander off. She was right next to me-"

"Eet's alright," Thierry stepped forward, placing a hand upon her shoulder. She looked up at him, her eyes now glistening with unshed tears. "Now, what ees yer name?"

"Moira Evans," she said, her eyes still soft with tears.

"Now, Moira, I am sure we weel find _votre fille_ soon," Thierry soothed. Under his gaze the woman visibly relaxed. With his sharp features and two crooked front teeth, Thierry was hardly conventionally good-looking, but the Veela in him came out when he smiled. "Now, I am goin' ter put ma 'and upon yer forehead, an' I need yer to relax an' close yer eyes."

By now Moira was also smiling. "Are you a mystic?" she asked, her eyes now gleaming with awe.

"He's not a mystic, he's a wizard," Arthur blurted out.

"I am most _certainment _not," Thierry said, wishing he was close enough to elbow Arthur.

"No, he's almost a fully-qualified wizard, and he's one of the best students in our year," Arthur insisted. "Thierry, a mystic is what Trelawney is, don't sell yourself short."

Moira looked apprehensive. Thierry gave Arthur a sharp look. "Ma friend is _un peu d'un _jokaire," he beamed, now faced with the task of undoing Arthur's bad work. His hand slipped down and began to rub her arm. "I guess yer could say_ je suis un mystique_ - of sorts. Eef yer close yer eyes an' concentrate all yer thoughts upon yer daughtaire, I can use ma innaire eye to find 'er location."

"Wow," Moira beamed. Thierry placed a tanned palm over her forehead and she obediently closed her eyes. His free hand pulled his wand out the back pocket of his cords and he whispered a complex series of charms over her. He too closed his eyes, then they popped open with the sudden acquisition of a piece of information. "Post office near ze newspapers down ze back, second shop to ze right," he hissed to Arthur, who nodded and broke into a jog down the corridor.

The girl, a redhead with striking green eyes that already showed promise of becoming an exceptional beauty, was exactly where Thierry said she would be, curled into a ball on the floor and sniffing into her teddy bear. She jumped when he touched her shoulder, but after he had spoken to her for a moment, tentatively held out her arms for him to pick her up. Thierry and the woman were still in the same position when he returned. At the sight of her Moira screamed, "Lily!" and scooped her up into her arms. "Oh, thank you, thank you, so much!" she gasped. "You truly are gifted! May you be eternally blessed."

"_Et vous aussi_," Thierry said, bending down to drop a kiss on her cheek. Moira blushed and giggled. Arthur also said his farewells, then the two boys resumed pushing their trolleys along the corridor. As soon as they were out of sight Thierry gave Arthur a playful wack around the back of his head. "Arthur, Arthur, _mon_ _pauvre_ _garcon_," he said solemnly, a grin betraying his tone. "What a theeng ter say at a time like zat. "Ee's not a mystic, ee eez a wizard." No wondaire we cannot find yer a decent woman."

"Not all of us have the fortune to be part-Veela," Arthur told him, grinning back. Only a close friend like Thierry could say things like that and not be hurtful. "Since I regretfully cannot use magical means to dupe witches into letting me into their beds - let's call a wand a wand, shall we, you're no looker yourself-"

"No lookaire?" Thierry pretended to be shocked. "Yer are one ter talk-"

"-I suppose that in order to win over my fair lady's heart, I will just have to rely on good old-fashioned English charm," Arthur continued.

"Engleesh charm?" Thierry scoffed. "_What_ Engleesh charm? Ees zat _un _oxymoron? Now _le francais_, we 'ave charm."

"If that's what you call bewitching poor unsuspecting virgins with your wicked Veela ways, then fair enough," Arthur shrugged. He was one of the few people who could get the upper hand against Thierry.

"Weel, 'aving magicale charm eez bettaire zan 'aving no charm at all, as yer may weel realise, ma red 'eaded friend. _Du rosboeuf_-" He broke off abruptly as they turned a corner. An unusual sight greeted them. A slender girl with long chestnut hair was pushing along a tubby boy, who was hopping in a very awkward gait. Her free hand was pushing a trolley laden with battered brown cases. "Oh, do come on, Frank," she was saying. "The train is due to leave at any minute now. How you manage to get hit with a leg-locking curse by Lucius Malfoy every year, I'll never know-"

"Lucille!" Arthur cried, running and catching her up in a hug. Unfortunately in doing so, he removed the main support third year Frank Longbottom had. The boy lost what little equilibrium he had ever had to begin with, let alone when he was being afflicted by the _Rigor Mortus_ curse, and all three of them went tumbling to the floor.

Thierry strode forward and sought to untangle the confusion of limbs. Judging the pixie-like Lucille to be the biggest liability if one of the boys rolled the wrong way, he stopped before her and extended his arm. She was wearing a black outfit that he had initially thought to be a dress, but on closer inspection was a separate top and skirt. She had never worn skirts anywhere near that short before - if so he would have surely remembered because she had, he realised, fantastic legs. At the sight of him her face closed itself up like a fan, and her hand shook as she slid it into his much-larger palm. "Thank you," she said stiffly once he had pulled her to her feet, then, "You can let go of me now." 

"_Bien sur_," Thierry said, resisting the urge to drop into a sarcastic bow. "Arthur, Longbottom, eez everytheeng een ordaire down zere?"

"Er, does anyone know the counter for the leg-locking curse?" Frank asked timidly.

Arthur glanced at Thierry, who shook his head. "Afraid not," Arthur said. "We'll just have to get you to the train, Diana will surely know." He grabbed one arm, Thierry took the other, and with Lucille puffing along behind a trolley laden with the three boys' cases, made their way to platform Nine and Three-Quarters as quickly as they could. Despite their efforts, they arrived to find the wall as rock-solid as any other. "_Putain_!"Thierry swore, banging his fist against the wall.

"What did you just call me?" Lucille asked, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Eet ees joost _une figure de _speech," he told her sourly, adding under his breath, "except maybe not _dans toi_ case." Arthur was running his hand thoughtfully along the brick wall, and Frank was propped up upon the baggage cart, looking completely woebegone. "Now 'ow are we going to get to 'Ogwarts?"

Arthur and Lucille's eyes met. Arthur was wearing an expression of child-like eagerness; Lucille looked horrified. "_Not the summer project_-" she began.

"The summer project!" Arthur confirmed joyfully.

"Oh, dear Merlin, no," Lucille moaned. "There is no way I am getting into that thing." 

"But, Lucille, it's perfect!" Arthur cried, grabbing her wrist in excitement. "The brakes work properly now, I've given her a fresh coat of paint and buffed and shined her-"

"Her?" Lucille squealed. "_Her_? What latent hatred towards our gender causes men to name inanimate _man_-made objects after us?"

"-And listen, Lucille," Arthur's face was less than a foot away from hers, "I've installed an _Invisibility Booster_." Thierry glanced down at Frank and winked. The third year, not used to being treated in such a friendly manner by the senior boys, started, then returned a tentative smile. "Now what an Invisibility Booster does is makes the car visibly disappear, so that when I fly it-"

"You mean, you honestly expect me to get into something that _you_ made fly?" Lucille shrieked. People were starting to stare at them. "Arthur, do you remember what happened to my transistor radio?"

"But that was an one-off," he tried to placate her. "An electrical faulting or something. Lucille, I promise the car won't suddenly start singing "God save the Queen," do the can-can and dive out the window. And I'm sure there was a logical explanation for that. It was probably just suicidal after all the Supremes songs you were playing on it."

"Don't insult my taste in music!" Two bright spots had appeared on Lucille's cheeks.

Privately, Thierry didn't blame Lucille for her reaction. He and Arthur had flown to London in the Sacred Blue without a hitch, but with all the talk of electrical appliances becoming suicidal and hurling themselves through windows, he was starting to feel slightly queasy himself. But there was no other option, and therefore no point in arguing. "Arthur, Lucille, enough," he said. "Zere eez no odaire way. We are going een Arthur's car an' flying to 'Ogwarts."

"_I'm_ not," Lucille said, folding her arms stubbornly under a rather meagre bust. "I don't care if I have to walk the entire way to Scotland – the entire way to Scotland in _these_ shoes! - I'm not risking my neck in that thing."

"Vair weel, zen," he said, abruptly picking her up and dumping her over his shoulder. Instantly she began to squirm, but his hands found her upper thighs and the crook of her knees, holding her securely in place. "Put me down," she ordered. "This is most undignified! So happy to see that your misogynist Quidditch jock, cave-wizard mentality is finally out in the open, Thierry. Veronica and Molly wouldn't think you were so wonderful if they could see you now. Oh isn't it so like men, to resort to physical force and violence when their pathetic attempts at reason - no surprise there - fail…"

This continued for some time. Arthur, lucky man, was meanwhile having a measurably more pleasant conversation with Frank Longbottom on how he was sure there was a counter-curse _somewhere _in his texts.

Thierry didn't deposit Lucille until they reached the car. The instant she had her feet on solid ground she aimed a kick at the French boy, who with his swift Quidditch reflexes dodged quite easily. Instead her foot connected with the parking meter, which resulted in a torrent of swear words that continued even after Arthur had cast a numbing charm over the tip of her boot.

"Ow long weel eet take to reach 'Ogwarts?" Thierry asked Arthur as he heaved suitcases into the car's bonnet.

"Oh, we should be there around four if we catch a favourable wind," Arthur approximated, tenderly wiping some minuscule smudges off the front window. "Obviously with the rest of the school arriving after dark, it won't look too good to actually show up at the school then, so we'll just have to stay at Hogsmeade for a few hours. Won't Mum be surprised to see me!"

Lucille's stomach twisted. They would be in that stupid car for almost five hours! Her tissues wouldn't hold up that long! She had left her purse with Molly and had no money to buy anything with, let alone had seen a place where she could actually purchase what she needed. All she could hope was that the Sacred Blue's seats had vinyl covers. This was no good. She had to tell someone. However, the scene in front of her wasn't exactly brimming with possibilities. Arthur would blush and start stammering like a stuck record and as for _Frank_, well, there was a reason he always seemed to be in the wrong place whenever the Slytherins were flinging curses around. They wouldn't be of any help at all. A decision made, she took a deep breath and tugged on the t-shirt sleeve next to her. "Thierry, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Thierry gave her a suspicious look, but obliged and walked a small distance away from the other two. Rising on her toes so that she could reach his ear, Lucille whispered, "_J'ai mes regles_."

"Oh. Okay." Thierry pulled away from her slightly, and she saw that his cheeks were turning red. She could feel herself blushing as well. "Do yer not 'ave anyteeng for eet?" Lucille shook her head. "Okay," Thierry repeated. "I weel see what I can do. Wait 'ere." 

Arthur was still flicking through his text, trying to locate the counter curse. Thierry walked over to his suitcase and rummaged around in it, eventually coming up with a scroll of paper. Lucille squinted, puzzled. That would hardly be of any help. He returned and glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then held his wand over the paper and said, "_Menstruae containium_." The paper transfigured into a sanitary pad. "When oo 'ave two oldere seesters oo are part-Veela, yer learn zees zings," Thierry, looking slightly chagrined, explained at her shocked expression. "We weel not mention eet again."

"Thank you," Lucille said, gratefully tucking the pad into her skirt pocket and running off in the direction of the ladies' rooms.

When she had returned, the other three were settling into the Sacred Blue. They had put Frank sideways in the back seat (Lucille gathered that Arthur had been unsuccessful in his search for a counter curse) with Emmanuel and Errol, Arthur's owl, and crammed the bonnet with suitcases to the point where one of Arthur's shoelaces was holding it shut. Arthur was driving, Thierry had taken the passenger seat and she was to sit on his lap. He looked uncomfortable with the arrangement, which was understandable given her condition. However, there was nothing anyone could do about it.

"Seat belts!" Arthur said primly, basking in the moment. Frank gave him a confused look, but Thierry reached behind him and pulled a black strip of fabric across his upper body, then attached it somewhere near his right hip. "I don't want to be responsible for any concussions when we reach Hogwarts."

"What about me?" Lucille pouted.

"I suppose I will joost 'ave to be yer seatbelt, _sucre_," Thierry told her, grinning evilly. Since she would be in forced close confinement with him for the rest of the day, he figured he may as well take the opportunity to annoy her. "Do not be afraid, I 'ave a very strong grip."

"That's what I _am_ afraid of," Lucille grumbled under her breath, perching daintily on his lap and trying to keep her upper body as far away from his as possible.

Arthur drove until he found a deserted street (which took a while, being in the centre of London), then pressed the Invisibility Booster, sending the Sacred Blue into the deep blue. The invisibility function was amazing, Lucille thought. She could touch the vinyl-covered dashboard with her fingers, felt Arthur's hand brush against her leg as he shifted the joystick, but for all she could actually _see_, she may have been just a pair of eyeballs floating in the sky. London spiralled away below them, a patchwork quilt of streets with a blue ribbon of river waving through its middle. The wind waffled through her hair…

"Lucille, eef yer do not get yer 'air out of _ma visage_, I veel cut eet off." Thierry's voice shattered the mood. Safe in the knowledge he could not see her, Lucille flipped him the bird and twisted her hair into a bun, then stuck it down the neck of her top.

"Lucille, did oo joost give _moi_ ze feenger joost then?" Her mouth fell open. How on earth did he know that?

Behind the wheel Arthur smiled. Thierry and Lucille were bickering beside him, and a Longbottom was tucked away in the back under some form of curse inflicted by a Slytherin wand. In short, it was just like old times. However, something _was_ missing. His hand skirted across the front of the dashboard until he found what he was looking for. Soon a crisp, upbeat guitar sound filled the tiny car. "It's a radio!" he called to Thierry and Frank, guessing the Beatlemania-afflicted Lucille would already know what he had just turned on. "It's what Muggles use to listen to music. It receives music through transmission - that's sort of like an electrical current through the air-"

"What ees electreecale?" Thierry asked.

"Shut up, I like this song," Lucille ordered him, then started to sing along to it. She had an unremarkable but decent voice, low and dusky.

__

Hey where did we go

Days when the rains came

Down in a hollow

Playin' a new game 

Laughin' and a runnin'

Skippin' and a jumpin'

In the misty mornin' fog

Ah with our hearts a thumpin'

Was you my brown eyed girl

You my brown eyed girl

Now what ever happened

Tuesday is oh so slow

Goin' down the old mine with a

Transistor radio 

Standin' in a sunlit lane

Hidin' 'hind a rainbow's wall

Slippin' and a slidin' yeah

All along the waterfall

It was you my brown eyed girl

You my brown eyed girl

Do you remember when

We used to sing

Sha la la la la la la la la la la ti da

Sha la la la la la la la la la la ti da

Grinning, Arthur moved his hand to the right and flicked the Invisibility Booster off. Sure enough Lucille had her eyes squeezed shut and was singing into a microphone formed by her fist. He and Thierry beamed silently at each other, not wanting to make her aware that they could now see her. When she realised what Arthur had done, she shrieked and swatted his arm playfully. He made up for it by singing the rest of the song along with her. Frank applauded when they had finished.

"Arthur _et_ Lucille, oo seengs zis song?" Thierry asked them.

"Van Morrison," Lucille replied.

"Good. Let's keep eet zat way," Thierry retorted. To defuse an argument, Arthur flicked through the stations until he found one playing a Beatles song, which ironically turned out to be "Drive my car." Out of him and Lucille, he sung along to that one the loudest.

* * * * *

On the veranda of her country house a housewife was sipping a very strong cup of tea. Today she had suffered one of her turns. She was sure that the girl she had seen in the lavatories at Kings Cross had been wearing a turquoise skirt when she had gone into the cubicle, yet had emerged in a black one. And since she carried no bag, not even a small purse, there was no feasible possibility that she had changed while she was in there. Eleanor remembered details like that.

A movement in the corner of her eye brought her back to the present and she looked upwards, then her cup of tea clattered to the worn wooden boards.

Seconds later she was on the telephone to London. "Doctor McGuire? Yes, it's me, Matilda. Doctor, I hate to doubt your medical expertise but I think I need to get the dosage on those pills changed. I just saw a blue car flying overhead."

* * * * *

Sometime after lunch the novelty started to wear off for Eleanor's hallucinatory car passengers. Part of the reason for this was that although it _was _after lunch, because there was no food cart in the Sacred Blue, they had not had any. If it had been hot on the streets below, it was completely scorching above the clouds. Arthur and Frank had both stripped off completely from the waist up and exposed freckled white flesh to the sun. Thierry would have done the same, but having Lucille on his lap made it impossible. And because of the added heat that came from having another warm-blooded mammal so close to him, he was feeling very hot and flustered but doing his best to keep his temper in check. However, the girl in question was not making that easy for him.

"Can we _please_ stop somewhere, just to get a bite to eat and a drink?" she wheedled. "It won't take very long and we'll all feel much more pleasant for it."

"No, Lucille, the Invisibility Boosters been faulty ever since we got out of London," Arthur told her. "I can't risk landing and having Muggles see us."

"But we could land in a paddock somewhere," Lucille persisted, "and then walk."

"And what _exactement_ are we going to do _avec_ Frank?" Thierry rapped out, feeling his tenuous grasp on his disposition slip even further. "_Il_ ees still under ze leg-lockeeng curse, ee cannot walk at all."

"Someone could carry him."

"Glad to 'ere zat you are volunteering," Thierry snapped. The "someone" in question obviously meant him or Arthur.

"Look at that cloud," Arthur said quickly. "Don't you think it looks like a bust of Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes, and it would have been about the twelfth one we've seen like that today," Lucille said cuttingly. "When _are_ we going to get to Hogwarts?"

"Lucille, do me an' everyone else _une faveur_," Thierry snarled, "an' shut up." He glanced at the side mirror, expecting to see her customary glower etched upon her features. Instead she looked sad and pale. She brought up one hand and rubbed her forehead, then winced. He had forgotten that she was not feeling well. Leaning forward, he whispered, "Sh, _cherie_, we weel be _dans_ 'Ogwarts very soon. In ze meantime, why don' you try an' get some rest, _d'accord_?"

Surprisingly, Lucille nodded in agreement and settled back against him. Gradually her chin dropped and her eyes slid shut. Thierry carefully pushed her head back on his shoulder and tightened his arms around her. Now her face in the mirror was still and at peace. She was rather attractive when she slept, if only because it meant she wasn't talking.

"Well made, isn't she?" Arthur asked.

Thierry jumped guiltily. "A leedle bit on ze small side," he said, deciding to be paltry. "_Especialement dans_ some places."

"That's the beauty of her, though," Arthur breathed. Thierry glanced at him sharply. Were new feelings for Lucille coming through? "It's astounding how much Muggles can cram into these things; you wouldn't think it from the outside. Stupendous, really." 

Arthur was talking about the car. Thierry smiled and turned back to the window.

"Thierry, what were you talking about just then?" Arthur queried. "Somehow I feel as though we had our wands crossed."

"Oh." Thierry looked across at Arthur. The redhead's face was innocent and guile-free. "Ze car, of course."

"It's not very nice to be critical of other people's possessions," Arthur admonished mildly. "Especially when parts of them are small and they can't help it. It's a Beetle. It's designed to be little. Anything large would look out of place on it."

"Of course eet would. I do apologise. Eets ze 'eat, oo know." Satisfied that he had placated his friend, Thierry once again redirected his attention to the view below them. Frank was snoring in the back.

Arthur beamed inwardly. He knew very well what Thierry had _really_ been talking about.

* * * * *

Back in the Hogwarts Express, Molly was contemplating changing into her school uniform. The uniforms had been altered slightly from the previous year. Last year she had tripped around in a heavy pleated felt skirt that came down to her ankles, but this year her uniform consisted of a sleeveless grey shift with an A-line skirt that ended several inches above her knees and a white turtleneck that was worn underneath. A Gryffindor badge below the right shoulder signified where her loyalties lay. The new look had been based on Muggle fashions and Molly had to admit that it was, well, _cute_. She had heard some of the older girls complaining about the much-shorter skirt length - notably Diana - but not only was Molly grateful for its absence in this heat, but it gave her a chance to show off her legs. Whatever misgivings she may have kept to herself about the rest of her generous figure, she did rather like her pins.

Perhaps showing some pride in her new position, unlike her companion, Veronica had changed almost immediately. Her uniform was yet again different from Molly's. Her dress was black, not grey, and instead of a turtleneck she had a white shirt with its collars edged with black. The silver prefect's badge flashed as she pinned it to the dress. She didn't have the Gryffindor crest, but between the lapels of her collar a scarlet and gold rosette had been tied. Unlike the "underlings," herself and the other prefects (female, that was) also had the option of wearing black hose instead of the white knee high socks that the other girls were required to wear.

"Ronnie?" Molly was standing with the uniform clutched in her hands. "Lucille hasn't come in yet. Usually she would be sitting with us."

Veronica had forgotten about Lucille. "Maybe she met up with Arthur and Thierry at the station and they decided to take a compartment together." She watched Molly's face carefully as she said Arthur's name. It was true that she wasn't expecting overwhelming joy. Even a look of annoyance like Lucille was wont to get whenever anyone mentioned a certain Frenchman would have been something, but Molly's face remained blank. Veronica sighed inwardly. This would take some work.

"True, but I can't really see Lucille voluntarily spending any more time than she has to in Thierry's company," Molly pointed out. "I hope nothing bad has happened to them."

"Oh, Molly, you're such a mother," Veronica teased. "They're senior students. They're perfectly capable of looking after themselves." That last part sounded a little too close to Diana for comfort. She hoped being a prefect wouldn't deprive her of her sense of fun and mischief. "And Thierry can-" she was about to say _Apparate_, but caught herself "-cast one hell of a Summoning charm." Molly gave her a strange look, but fortunately made no other comment. "Honestly, Molly, you're going to need a large family to satisfy your cluckiness. I can see you fussing over six or seven children in the future."

"You just be careful," Molly grinned. "Who knows, Ronnie, I may even end up naming one of them after you."

"That might not be a good omen," Veronica said. "I mean, with a name like that you'll have a child who's continually getting in trouble, for, say, sneaking out after dark, wandering into the Forbidden Forest looking for spiders and picking fights with Slytherins."

"And what's wrong with that?" Molly asked. The spiders had been before an anti-nausea potion Professor Mustard had required her to make in her second year. What Molly still didn't understand was why something that was supposed to stop people from feeling ill contained so many revolting things. "Especially that last bit, I quite liked."

"I think you'll feel differently if it's your own child you're continually getting owled about, rather than you doing these things," Veronica reasoned. "I mean, look at the trouble poor Lucille has with Sirius and that James Potter. They're not even her own children, but she's still responsible for them."

At the mention of Lucille's name Molly's smile faded. "Ronnie, she should have been here by now. I'm getting quite anxious."

"As you would. Typical fretful mother." Veronica then saw the look Molly gave her and turned serious. "Alright, I'll go outside and have a scout around for her. I was planning on going to the food cart anyway."

"And how many boxes of Bertie Botts' Many-Flavoured Beans are you planning on buying this year?" Molly asked her.

"Only five or six," Veronica shrugged. "I'm trying to cut down."

"Oh, come on, Ronnie, you need at least ten," Molly teased. "This is your final year to beat that record of nine you got when you were in your fourth year."

"Get bent, carrots," Veronica grinned, ducking outside with her purse.

Left alone, Molly gazed down at the uniform neatly laid out on the seat next to her. It was true that in terms of comfort, it was a huge improvement after last year's nightmare, but her Muggle capris and sleeveless shirt would probably still be a lot cooler. She decided to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, then started when the door slid open. "You didn't take long to find-"

"You? Of course not." Standing in the doorway was not Veronica and a stackload of Many-Flavoured Beans but Lucius Malfoy, the Slytherin who had been responsible for her reading every single one of her Care of Magical Creatures texts over the summer. "Molly, what a _delightful_ outfit." Tall and blond, Lucius insisted on wearing wizards' clothes despite the heat. He was probably too cold-blooded to feel it, Molly reflected. "I failed to see you at Diagon Alley last week while I was purchasing my books."

"What a pity," Molly said unconvincingly. He had come inside and closed the door behind him. She wished he hadn't. It wasn't that she was scared of him- even in Slytherin most boys had some scruples about hexing a female - but she would have felt better had the taller and more athletically built Veronica been in the room.

"Is this seat taken?" Lucius asked, glancing at the space that Molly's uniform occupied. Before she could reply he had sat down. She realised he hadn't really been waiting for an answer. Malfoys never did. "You're, um, squashing my uniform," she said pointedly.

Lucius glanced down. "My apologies," he said, sounding not particularly sorry. He moved off the clothes so that he was sitting barely a foot away from her. She resisted the urge to scream and run out of the room.

"Er, well," Molly played for time, "the thing is that this cabin is already full. Veronica Vectors gone to the food cart - she could be back any second now," she added hopefully, "and Lucille Black, Thierry Delacour and Arthur Weasley are also sitting here."

At the mention of Arthur's name Lucius' grin dropped. "Oh, so this is a little private party, then?" he sneered. "Slytherins need not apply? Well, I'd best leave you Gryffindors to bond, then." He flung the door open and stormed outside.

"So that's how to get rid of him," Molly said aloud to the empty cabin, smiling again. She and Veronica could have a good giggle about this when the older girl returned…

__

Tap-tap.

Frowning, Molly went to the door and opened it, her wand drawn in case Lucius had decided to pay another visit. The hallway was empty. Perhaps the carriage was just showing its age…

__

Tap-tap.

Molly turned and screamed. Hanging out of the window of a baby blue Beetle was Arthur Weasley, beaming enthusiastically as though flying fifty feet or so above a river, since they were going over a bridge, was the most natural thing in the world. It was he who had been knocking on the compartment _window_. "Molly Morag!" he called out to her. "Long time, no see. How was your summer?"

"F-fine. Really nice," she stammered, then realised he couldn't hear her and raced across the cabin to open the window. "What are you _doing _in that thing?"

"It's my new car," Arthur called back over the rushing air outside the window. "Charmed it to fly over the summer. We missed the train, so we decided to take it instead." "We" included Thierry Delacour, who gave her a wave, a very sulky-looking Lucille Black on his lap and Frank Longbottom, who was sitting in a strange position along the back seat. "How's your mother?"

"She's great," Molly replied. Next he would be asking her if she would like to come in for a cup of tea. She wondering how Lucille was holding up and whether she needed anything, but doubted Thierry would be amused if a sanitary pad came flying through the air to hit him on the forehead.

"Ey, Molly," Thierry called out to her. The car jerked upwards, then levelled. "Oo wouldn't by any chance know ze counter-curse to ze leg lockeeng curse?"

"What?" Molly cried.

"Ze leg lockeeng curse!" Thierry shouted. The car bobbed down slightly, just out of view of the window.

"Oh. Just one minute," Molly said, racking her brains to think of it. "Hang on, I've got it, it's _rigor motor_-"

"Molly Morag, what is this I hear about you and Lucius Malfoy sitting in this cabin together alone, _with the door shut_?" Diana McGongall's voice demanded. Molly turned to see the Head Girl standing in the doorway, hands propped on hips with almost military intent. "You must be aware that there are rules against this sort of thing."

Molly's heart leapt wildly. Arthur and his passengers were out of Diana's line of vision for now, but soon they would bob back up and it wouldn't take Professor Trelawney to see detentions in everyone's future. "Heads up!" she cried, tugging up the bottom of her shirt.

Diana's eyes widened like saucers. The mini flew back up, Arthur's mouth dropping open as he saw her. Thierry was grinning broadly. Molly saw Lucille reach over and clap a hand over Frank's eyes before Arthur in his shock let go of the wheel and the car plummeted out of sight. She screamed again.

"Molly Morag, what is the meaning of this?" Diana spat.

"Oh, er," Molly stammered, "I screamed because I saw a wasp-"

"And is that how you normally react to wasps? Pull up your shirt to give them a better target? It would have been quite spoilt for choice there, wouldn't you think? What _is_ the meaning of this? Girl, have you gone mad?"

"Er, no, Diana, I haven't gone mad, oh dear, I mean, _a_ _dare_!" Inspiration hit. "Yes, Arthur Weasley - you know what a _great_ practical joker that guy is, _terrific_ sense of humour, real riot - dared me to flash you before the start of term." Diana was still looking at her strangely. "You will tell him that I did it, won't you? Because I get to make him do something embarrassing in return if I go through with it."

"Well, then." For once Diana seemed at a loss for words. "Well, I must say that I am surprised it was Arthur, given that he is- well, never mind. I will not give you a detention this time but, Molly, do try to keep your shirt on, er, _down_, in the future." With that she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

The instant she left Molly pulled the door shut, then ran across to the window and looked outside. The mini had reappeared and Arthur gave her the thumbs up signal, then drove off. She waved back, hoping it was a "Yes, we're okay" and not an "I liked what I saw" thumbs up. She would never live this one down.

* * * * *

Back in the Sacred Blue, Thierry had asked Arthur a question similar to the one Molly had just posed to herself. "Of course it was a "Yes, we're okay" thumbs up," Lucille shot back indignantly at him. "Arthur is a _gentleman_. He's not that type of guy; he's not like, like you!"

"So what ees like me zen, Lucille?" Thierry enquired coolly.

Lucille couldn't answer that one. 

Frank too had been speechless ever since he had caught a glimpse of Molly's breasts. Arthur suspected that it had been the first glimpse of female secondary sex characteristics the third year had ever seen, and most possibly the last for some time. Unless Longbottom counted what he saw when he looked in the mirror shirtless, that was. He immediately scolded himself for that rather cruel thought.

"Weel, Arthur," Thierry returned to him, "oo were sayin' zat oo 'ad not seen zat much of Molly over ze summer. Zat certainly remedied zings. Ow!" Lucille had just punched him on the shoulder. "_Merde_, Lucille! Are yer evair _dans_ a good mood?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that I always seem to be in a bad mood whenever _you're_ around?" Lucille shot back. "_Quelle coincedence_?_ Je ne pense pas_!"

"_Vraiment_? I joost thought zat oo weere _une grande vache_-"

"Oh, look! Hogwarts!" Arthur called quickly.

The many-spired building was glittering away beneath them, nestled in the crook of a rippling blue lake. They had never seen Hogwarts from this high up, and the view was quite breathtaking. From this height the school seemed to warrant its reputation as being one of the best magic academies in Europe. Even Lucille forgot her argument and was staring down at the sight. 

* * * * *

Molly never had a chance to tell Veronica about their airborn friends. She returned with - not five, not six - but _eleven_ boxes of Many-Flavoured Beans and Amos Diggory, the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain. Molly liked Amos well enough, in fact, she thought he was rather spunky, but wasn't sure how trustworthy he would be with the knowledge of the flying Beetle. Hufflepuffs were known to be sticklers for the rules. However, with Amo's company and that of Ravenclaws Alistair Bell and Sylvian Davies, who joined them later, the time passed very quickly and Molly soon forgot about this slight inconvenience.

One thing she did tell them about was Lucius Malfoy's visit. When she described the expression on Lucius' face when she had mentioned Arthur Weasley's name, Sylvian laughed so hard that he almost snorted a Toss-Flossing Stringmint out his nose.

"That big poofter," he roared. "Isn't he engaged or something? Wants a bit of Irish on the side, perhaps?"

"Molly, seriously," Alistair began, a good-looking boy with blond hair that flopped forward over his eyes, "his dad's influence doesn't extend to Hogwarts to the point where he can get away with harassing helpless girls. If you ever want us to teach him a lesson, well, just say when."

"Oh, it's alright, Ali," Molly, laughing herself now, said. "I find him more comical than anything else. And I'm hardly helpless." With Veronica and three tall boys crowding the tiny cabin, she had forgotten her apprehension when Lucius had entered uninvited and unwanted.

"Well, if you need help, just say the word, Molly," Amos persisted. "We'll protect you." Molly saw the earnest expression in his eyes and felt her face grow hot.

It was growing dark when the train pulled into the station and the air was now pleasantly cool. Molly caught a brief glimpse of Elspeth's frightened face and managed to give her a reassuring wave before herself and all the other returning students were clustered into the waiting carriages.

"I didn't see Lucille, Arthur _or_ Thierry on the platform," Veronica, now the fretful one, told her as they climbed into a carriage and found seats facing the front. "And with their height, Arthur and Thierry are pretty hard to miss in a crowd."

"Ronnie-" Molly tried.

"I suppose that if they missed the train, they all found each other eventually, and not too much can happen to Lucille if Thierry's with her," Veronica continued. "If he doesn't strangle her himself, that is."

"Ronnie, they're all-" Molly started, but a group of second years climbed in with them and she was unable to continue.

A while later and they were all sitting on the far right of the Great Hall at the table assigned to their house, with Professor Finch, the Potions teacher, watching over them narrowly. Finch, on top of being the toughest teacher in the school, was the Slytherin house head, and hated all things scarlet and gold with a passion paralleled only by Lucius Malfoy. Rumour had it that the dislike this man, an unrelenting academic, had for students was fuelled by his own son being a Squib. Her cheekiness taking hold, Molly smiled beguilingly up at him. His frown only deepened.

The doors swung open and the towering Professor Dumbledore, Finch's opposing number in Gryffindor house, strode in at the front of the sea of first years. Molly saw her sister at the centre of the crowd, who was staring at the floor morosely. Headmaster Armando Dippet rose to his feet and cleared his throat. The students turned towards him expectantly.

"Now that Professor Dumbledore has entered with this year's new batch," he began, "and what a splendid group they look to me, we may shortly allow proceedings to get underway. However, before we commence, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce this year's Head Boy and Girl."

Veronica elbowed Molly.

"Now," Dippet, a small, bespectacled man, continued, "at the end of each year, the head boy and girl are both chosen from the sixth year students. Students worthy of this honour must not only show exceptional academic aptitude, but must be thoroughly involved with the school and well-respected by his or her peers. These two students must be mature, reliable and responsible, and above all be committed to upholding Hogwarts' good name and all that it stands for."

Molly was beginning to shift in her seat, as was Veronica next to her. She liked Dippet, a soft-spoken but unflappable man, but wished he would just get on with it.

Dippet wasn't long in obliging her. "Now, the Head Girl this year is Miss Diana McGonagall of Gryffindor House." Molly applauded politely, smiling at the black look on Finch's face. "Diana, if you would please stand so that any newcomers will recognise you." Diana rose to her feet, her face somehow stern in its lack of expression. Several first years look nervous. "Thank you, Diana. Please remain standing so that I may introduce your equivalent. Now, the Head Boy," his eyes darted across the room and over the Slytherin table, "is-" he faltered, "will be-"

Molly was on the edge of her seat, but Veronica was no longer paying attention, instead gazing up at the ceiling. "A mini," she murmured.

"Yes, many girls have been sporting those today," Diana huffed near to her. "Such an indecent length-"

"_No, a car mini!"_ Veronica shrieked. _"It's going to crash into the Great Hall_-"

The car plunged through the window and Veronica instinctively flung up one arm to prevent the shower of glass splinters from hitting her face. It sat tethering on the window ledge, and she knew it was only a matter of seconds before it and its occupants came crashing down onto hard, unrelenting stone. 

****

* * * * *

Thanks and much love to everyone who reviewed.


	3. An Expected and Unexpected Announcement

****

With a Little Help from my Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: Now that I've established the characters and what kind of climate exists in 1960s Hogwarts, the chapters should be shorter - _everyone_ breathe a sigh of relief - and have more action happening in them.

Disclaimer: Still own nothing, and I see no chance of that changing in the future.

* * * * *

Chapter Three: An Expected and Unexpected Announcement

Later that evening Veronica would marvel at her quick thinking, but now she didn't have the time. "Molly, Diana, on the count of three we all do a leviating charm," she ordered. "One, two, three - _Wingardium Leviosa!"_

Under the combined power of the three senior girls' charms, the car slid free and floated carefully down until it was several feet above the floor, then, the charm losing effect, crashed down upon the teacher's table. For a moment all were silent, then Finch said dryly, "Armando, I believe you were about to introduce the Head Boy."

"Ah, yes," Dippet recovered remarkably quickly. "Arthur Weasley, will you please step out of that vehicle and made yourself known to the rest of the school?"

Veronica and Molly gaped at each other. Arthur was climbing out of the now-badly-battered Sacred Blue, his face almost blending into his hair with embarrassment. Diana looked as though steam would start pouring out of her nostrils at any minute.

"Arthur, along with Diana, has been a Gryffindor prefect for the last two years," Dippet continued mildly, as if Beetles crashing through the main window of the Great Hall were as regular as owl deliveries. "Since they have both led by example and accomplished more than just the call of duty, it is only fitting that they should ascend to the next level in the ladder of responsibilities. Let's all do our best to ensure that they have a productive year and start them on their way with a round of applause."

Veronica and Molly's enthusiasm was somewhat out of place in the muted clapping that followed, their fellow students no doubt still in shock from Arthur's spectacular entrance. "So that's why Lucius got so angry when I mentioned Arthur on the train," Molly whispered to her friend. "Lucille told me that he was using all of his family's influence - not to mention their bribing and blackmailing - to get that position himself. And with that influence he probably already knew that Arthur had got the title."

"Yet another reason why I love Arthur," Veronica responded. "Malfoy must be furious. Parading pompous git." She wolf-whistled and sat down quickly before Diana or any of the teachers located its source.

"Do you think Lucille knew Arthur had been made Head Boy?" Molly asked. "Did _you_? I certainly didn't."

"Negative to both of those," Veronica shook her head. She had seen the faces of the Sacred Blue's other passengers as Dippet made his announcement, with Thierry's being the only one that had not shown complete surprise. "Thierry may have known - understandable since he's Arthur's best friend - but Lucille was most definitely in the dark. Ooh, she looks mad." Lucille had shaken off the hand Thierry had held out to help her out of the car and was stalking towards the Gryffindor table, head held high. The Frenchman caught her eyes then rolled his, and she gave him a _what can you do, it's just Lucille_ shrug.

"She always thinks she's being left out of things," Molly agreed, but became silent once Lucille had reached the table. She saw Professor Dumbledore at long last performing the leg-locking counter curse on poor Frank. Arthur was about to join them, but Finch grasped his arm and mouthed something to him that looked like, "Detention." Arthur nodded grimly and left.

The actual sorting ceremony itself was somewhat muted and anti-climatic after that. To her sisters' great relief, Elsie Morag was sorted into the scarlet and gold house, along with Ann Brown, Ian Fawcett, Ryan McDonald, Priyanka Patil (who had an older brother in Ravenclaw) and Jack Thompson. Diana sat down the far end of the Gryffindor table, shooting glares at Arthur all the while. Molly wondered how he would take the news of the dare he had never made. 

"She probably thinks he's ruined her big moment," Lucille whispered after Diana had cast a particularly vitriolic look in Arthur's direction, then giggled. "She'd be right."

Molly laughed too. This was the Lucille she knew and loved, sharp and with a dry-as-fairy-dust sense of humour. She never understood why a girl such as Lucille, who had so much going for her, suffered such dramatic mood swings, and she probably never would. "You just have to accept people for what they are," she had told Thierry one night after he had sat at the foot of her bed for an hour complaining about a particularly scathing comment her friend had made. The trouble was that she didn't know exactly _what_ Lucille was sometimes.

When everyone was finally seated, Dippet once again rose to his feet. "Now, before we start," he said, and Arthur's stomach rumbled, "I have a few additional but brief announcements to make." He looked over at Arthur and beamed, almost as if he was aware of the boy's hunger. "Firstly, your caretaker Apollyon Pringle would like me to tell the first years and remind all the returning students than the Forbidden Forest is and will always be, well, forbidden." Molly could have sworn he was smiling at this last part. Pringle, a gaunt, dark-haired man, only glowered menacingly. 

"The second announcement," Dippet continued, "is of special importance to those thinking of graduating soon. I have been instructed by the Ministry of Magic that in addition to completing a minimum of six NEWTs, to be a fully qualified witch or wizard, students must pass a flying exam."

There was a crash and a warm stickiness spread over Molly's arm. Lucille's goblet had dropped out of her hand and the tiny redhead was staring aghast at the teachers' table, oblivious to the pumpkin juice pouring into her lap. Frank Longbottom was also wearing an expression that suggested he had just been told werewolves had kidnapped his teddy bear. Molly glanced across the table and kicked Thierry, who was starting to snigger at the look on Lucille's face.

"For those of you who would feel more comfortable with additional practice, there will be tutored practices after school on Wednesdays and Fridays," Dippet continued, smiling over at Lucille. The sixth year's knuckles were white around her knife. Thierry, perhaps noticing what was in her hand, had desisted in laughing at her. "Now, for my very last words: groovy, fab, mod and tuck in, everyone." He clapped his hands and the tables were instantly swamped by platters of delicious food.

"Mashed potatoes?" Zachary Lupin, the male Gryffindor prefect who had a brother around Sirius' age, held the plate out to her.

"Don't mind if I do," she said, placing a generous helping upon her plate.

"Ey, Molly," Thierry smirked. "Nice ter see so much of yer _aujourd-hui_. Terrific view up so 'igh, wasn't eet Arthur?"

Molly turned bright red and giggled. Lucille looked annoyed. "Molly, just ignore the French stallion who thinks he's Merlin's gift to women," Arthur suggested. "_When he's not. At all._" The last part was directed more at Thierry than Molly. "He probably spent the rest of the trip planning what to say to you," Arthur continued, "going over and over the best way of delivering his precious wise-crack in that thick skull of his. Ow!" Thierry had slapped him across the back of his head.

"Did you flash somebody, Molly?" Veronica, who had been trying to make sense of the conversation, asked.

"Yes," Molly whispered.

"Oh?" Veronica merely raised one eyebrow. Like Thierry with Arthur, being friends with Molly through most of her time at Hogwarts meant that she did not shock easily. "And who was the lucky guy, pray tell?"

"It wasn't a guy," Molly said in a barely-audible squeak. "It was Diana McGonagall."

__

Now Veronica was shocked. "Diana McGonagall?" she repeated. "And what on earth possessed you to do that? More importantly, after pulling a stunt like why are you still breathing?"

"I can't believe she let you live," Lucille added.

"Well, I had just fended off a Snake when these three idiots plus their unfortunate hostage, Frank Longbottom, decided to pay me a visit in that _thing_ of Arthur's," Molly began. At the word "thing" Arthur got a brief look in his eyes similar to the one Lucille had whenever someone made fun of her favourite foursome, but unlike Lucille remained calm. "So they're floating around outside the window when Diana drops in. I didn't want her to see them, so I-I-"

"Showed 'er ze family jewels," Thierry finished. "Presented 'er _avec_ yer two _meilleur_ assets."

"_Tais-toi, cochon_," Lucille snapped. Thierry swung a dark-eyed glare at her. She glared back.

"So," Veronica assessed, "out of every available option, you, for some reason, decided to _flash_ the head girl."

"I panicked!" Molly protested. "I didn't know what else to do!" Thierry and Lucille were still involved in a stare-off.

"Ah, well," Veronica shrugged, then started to giggle. "What kills me more than anything is that Longbottom was there. You must have permanently destroyed his innocence."

"Lucille covered his eyes," Molly told her.

"Not quickly enough, by the looks of things," Arthur, who had one ear on the conversation, added. "He hasn't been able to look at you once during dinner." Meanwhile, Lucille had been the first to disengage from her and Thierry's face-off and was now twirling her hair idly, as if she had broken contact not from a lack of nerve but because she simply couldn't be bothered. Thierry had not been taken in by this and was smiling quietly to himself, savouring his victory.

Veronica was enjoying an animated debate with Thierry and Holly Wood, Alexander's fourth year sister, about the Hawkshead Attacking Formation when Dippet again clapped his hands together, this time signalling the end of the feast. Normally the responsibility of leading the first years back to the common area after dinner fell to the prefects, but with both the Head Boy and Girl being from Gryffindor, Veronica and Zachary were let off. Diana gave Veronica a significant look as she arranged their newly-anointed housemates in a line near the Great Hall entrance, no doubt recalling their train conversation about prefects having the best of both worlds.

After a long, hot day of travelling everyone was exhausted. The first years, having been directed to their respective dormitories, went straight to bed. Older students were making to do the same but Thierry, who had been clock-watching all through dinner, leapt onto the coffee table in the centre of the room. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at his throat, crying, "_Sonorus._" Those students that had not stopped and stared when Thierry jumped onto the table, did so when with the voice altering charm, he started booming over the top of the common room din.

"Ladies an' gentlemen," he began, "eef I may joost 'ave _un moment_ of yer time, _s'il vous plait_. As most of yer may know, I am Thierry Delacour, but as some of yer may not know, I am ze new Quidditch captain, and I consider zis position to be an 'onair. Now what I 'ave to say pertains to yer all-"

"Even us girls?" Lucille cut him off, frowning.

"_Especialement_ _vous filles_," he confirmed, beaming back at her. Lucille did not respond, most likely as thrown as Molly was by Thierry's unusually good-natured reaction to her snarky comment. "Now, as yer may also be awaire, zere 'as been a division between ze girls an' ze boys when eet comes to Quidditch. Zis year I 'ope to amend zis. We 'ave not won ze Quidditch Cup _pour_ a long time, and I want us all ter come togethair een our efforts to be victorious _cette annee_."

"See?" Lucille hissed to Molly, "he _does _want us to make a banner! He can bloody well count me out-" Molly waved her silent, eager to hear what Thierry had to say next.

"Now as I 'ave mentioned before," the tall seventh year continued, "I am proud to be ze Quidditch captain, but I am proudair still to be ze first Quidditch captain to 'ave girls on ees team." His punch line completed, he smiled and waited patiently for his words to take affect.

"You're _joking_," Holly breathed.

"I 'ave nevair been more serious in ma life," Thierry told her, beaming. "According to ze 'Ogwarts by-laws, zair is no officiale law stopping _les filles_ from playin'. Eet ees at ze discretion of each 'ouse 'ead and Quidditch captain as to oo ees on the team. And since Professair Dumbledoer and I 'ave no problem with zis - in fact, I wondair why eet 'as not been done earlier - ladies, oo weel be playin' Quidditch zis year."

Veronica shrieked and ran up to the table, propelling herself into Thierry's arms with such force that the Frenchman almost lost his balance. "I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you!" she cried. Molly gave a scream and threw her arms around Holly's neck, who had started to cry. The only girl who was not either applauding Thierry or screaming out her joy was Lucille, who was watching him with an unreadable expression in her eyes.

Once the commotion had died down, seventh year Roy Connolly spoke up. "Thierry, I really hate to be the killjoy here," he said in his lilting Irish brogue, "but perhaps there's a reason why girls haven't been able to play up until now. I mean, they could get _injured_ out there."

"An' when 'ave people evair not been injured in Quidditch?" Thierry demanded. Holly was glaring at Roy. "I mean, eet ees a dangerous sport for anyone, _garcon ou fille_. Zats why even Dumbledoer weel not allow firs' years to play. Besides, in a fist fight between yerself an' Veronica Vectaire, _par example_, oo would yer put money on?"

"Veronica!" Molly called out loyally. Several people applauded.

"She would win because I wouldn't hit her back," Roy said stoutly.

"_Oui, mon garcon_. Yer joost keep on tellin' yerself zat," Thierry teased. The room erupted into laughter.

"Point taken," Roy grinned. Lucille was still standing silently.

"What about a fight between Herbie Jordan and Molly Morag?" someone called out.

"Hey, words hurt, man," the petite black third year said, smiling good-naturedly.

"How about yourself and Lucille Black?" another boy cried.

The common room silenced slightly. Clearly those within their friendship group were not the only ones aware of the tension between Thierry and Lucille. "Weel, eef she was able to oose her tongue, I'd say Lucille," Thierry conceded. Even the girl in question smiled at this. "Zat ees all I 'ave to say for now. Eef oo would like ter try out for ze Quidditch team, please remain behind in ze common room."

The crowd thinned out, people still talking excitedly among themselves. Veronica glanced over at Molly and gave a "why not" shrug. Holly also remained.

Thierry once again took up his wand, this time saying, "_Reducio_" when he pointed it at his throat. "Now, I 'ave no doubt zat we weel 'ave a very talented team zis year," he began, "but I do 'ave concerns for ze lack of experience, due ter circumstances beyond yer control, some of yer 'ave."

By "some of yer" he obviously meant the girls. Veronica nodded, acknowledging his tact, and waited for him to continue.

"Now traditionally ze _saison_ opener ees between ze defendin' champion, oo es Slytherin, and last year's runnairs-up." This year was the twelfth in a row that Gryffindor had held that honour. "Due to ze aggresif and dishonest nature of ze Slytherin Snakes, I 'ave decided to owl ze odair captains requestin' a friendly. Zis weel give oo some more experience prior to ze start of ze _saison_. Whether or not zey weel accept, I do not know. Ze decision of Dumbledoer _et _myself may not be as populaire everywhere."

"When do tryouts begin?" Holly asked.

"Tomorrow," Thierry replied, producing gasps from several of the room's occupants. "I know eet is vair sudden, _mais nous besoins _ze extraire time. Eef oo do not 'ave a broomstick, Professaire Dumbledoer weel give oo a note to borrow one of ze school's. 'Owevair, I strongly urge yer to obtain a decent one prior ter ze start of ze _saison_. Ze school broomsticks _sont merdes_."

Veronica had been around Thierry - well, more precisely, been around Thierry and Lucille together - long enough to know that _merde_ was some sort of French swear word. Across from her Molly grinned, perhaps thinking the same thing.

There were a few more questions regarding training schedules, uniforms and team vacancies, then everyone went up to bed, leaving the three friends together. Thierry got down off his coffee table and put his arms around the two girls' shoulders. He had to lean down quite far to reach Molly. "I am ver' 'appy zat ze two of yer decided to stick around," he told them. "I couldn't do eet without yer."

"We wouldn't let you do it by yourself," Veronica said, slinging her arm around his waist and giving him a quick hug.

"Yeah, we're with you all the way, babe," Molly told him.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Veronica added.

"An' oo weel both make splendid Quidditch players," Thierry continued. "I 'ave every confidence in the team zis year. An' because _avec les filles sur l'equipe_, we 'ave virtually doubled our talent pool, zere ees no excuse for _une mauvaise saison_."

"I'll drink to that," Molly said. Veronica had said good night and was going up the stairs to the girls' dormitories. "You know," she whispered, smiling, "you and Lucille really should hang out together sometime. You have more in common than you think."

Thierry looked revolted. "As eef I would spend anymore time in ze company of _cette, cette petite vache _zan I would 'ave to!" he puffed. "Do yer not 'ear ze way she talks to me? Do yer not see ze way she looks at me?"

"It is precisely because of the way she looks at you that we are having this conversation," Molly said, enjoying the confusion that played out over his face. "Good night, Thierry." She left him sitting on the sofa and followed Veronica up the stairs.

****

* * * * * 


	4. Dares and Disruptive Behaviour

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

Disclaimer: Cornelius Fudge belongs to the adorable J K Rowling. Quite frankly, she's welcome to him. And I still own nothing. Perhaps if I'm really good, I'll get a Firebolt for Christmas.

* * * * *

Chapter Four: Dares and Disruptive Behaviour

Arthur had a very strange conversation with Diana that morning. She had accosted him outside the entrance of the boys' dormitories with her customary greeting of, "A word, please."

Arthur had stayed up until three working on Lucille's record player. So far all it had done was sing - not the _English_ national anthem - but the _Peruvian_ one, and he was completely exhausted. Although there were certain male Ravenclaws who felt differently - social isolation taking its toll on those poor soles - the last thing he felt like at that moment was a bit of Diana. However he nodded and took the head girl's arm, drawing her out of the way of students stumbling out of bed to go to breakfast. Technically boys and girls were not allowed in each others' dorms, but the only teacher allowed in each house's common areas was the house head, and Dumbledore had made his policy (or lack of it) clear on that sort of thing. So long as both the doors and the curtains around a student's bed were left open, if he heard a female voice coming from the senior boys' rooms, he didn't look twice. Of course this was not an issue with the junior boys. Girls were ugly, stupid and boring, and they had sworn off them for life. To be fair, the junior girls had said much the same thing about their male counterparts.

How wrong they both were.

"Arthur Weasley," Diana started, fixing him with her sternest glare.

"Diana McGonagall," he shot back, hoping to get a smile out of her.

Bad idea.

"Now, Arthur, don't you dare give me sass," Diana admonished him, rising up on her toes. At just over six feet, Arthur was a good four inches taller than her, but when she was in Head Girl mode, he always felt four inches too short. "Especially after that stunt you pulled on the train yesterday, you owe me some answers."

"But, Di," Arthur started, unintentionally slipping on the nickname that only Veronica could get away with calling her. Which was an even bigger mistake than referring to her by her full name. A muscle in "Di's" cheek had started to twitch. _Suave as always, Weasley, _he reflected. "Er, Diana, I wasn't on the train. You saw me enter during the sorting ceremony last-" He suddenly remembered how her face had looked when he _had _made an appearance and wisely broke off.

"Well, you didn't have to, did you?" Diana continued. "You got one of your minions to carry out your little joke for you. Arthur, I know you have a somewhat _unconventional_-" she grimaced as if she had just uttered an obscene word "-approach to the way things are done around here, and because you are a good man and the students like you, I have tolerated it. Until now." Arthur flinched. "Really, Arthur, what in Godrey Gryffindor's name made you think that having Molly Morag flash me was a fitting introduction to our new responsibilities?"

Arthur's mouth fell open.

"Yes, I opened the door to her compartment and she pulled her blouse up," Diana confirmed haughtily. "And, no, Arthur, she was _not_ wearing a brasserie underneath."

"I know," Arthur said dreamily. Diana's eyebrows shot up. "I mean, of course she wouldn't, bloody - I mean, _blundering_ - hot day, I can imagine those contraptions could get quite uncomfortable."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that imagining is all you do," Diana cut him off. "I'll never forget the time in our fifth year when I walked into the seventh year girls dormitory and had the misfortune to come across Cornelius Fudge wearing one that belonged to some poor girl." Arthur fought to keep his face straight. "I had to eat chocolate before I went to bed every night for a month to stop the nightmares!"

"Are you sure it wasn't his bra?" The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"_Arthur Weasley_!" Arthur's ears had gone bright red. "My goodness! I will certainly have my work cut out for me this year! Anyway, I was paying Molly a visit because I heard an unfortunate rumour that Lucius Malfoy had just been in the compartment with her and only her, with the door _closed_-"

"Mal-ferret was with her?" Arthur demanded, a brief flash of anger lighting up his pale blue eyes. "Diana, she wouldn't have invited him in. You ought to check that he wasn't imposing himself upon her, _his _family haven't really mastered the art of taking "no" for an answer, and she is a very attractive girl-"

Diana held up a hand. "I did consider that possibility, but when I came across Miss Morag she seemed collected and composed. The poor girl was more flustered by her explanation of why on earth she had flashed me. She attributed to it some form of dare _you_ had proposed to her, and said that you had told her if she went through with it, you in turn would be indebted to her."

"Ah, yes," Arthur said, thinking quickly, "yes, those were our terms."

"Is this the sort of example you would like to set for our younger students?" Diana began to press, then her expression suddenly went pained. "You may not be aware," she added softly, "that there was strong competition from some quarters to your position as Head Boy. Lucius Malfoy was a possible candidate." Diana was a sharp-eyed woman - indeed, it had been impossible to refer to her as a "girl" for some years - and noticed the way Arthur flinched when she mentioned Lucius' name. "With his bearing and temperament, especially given the ever-increasing amount of Muggle-born students in the school, you can see as well as I what a tragedy that would be. Fortunately my aunt and Professor Dumbledore vouched for you."

Arthur thought that as a sixth year, Molly wasn't really a "younger student," but also thought that this was perhaps not the best time to make that distinction. And he could not only see the wisdom of Diana's words, but the mention of Lucius had sucked any humour out of him. "Yes, Diana, you are, as always, right," he agreed. If Diana picked up on the minute sarcasm he had injected into the last part, she did not comment. "I am aware that I am the new Head Boy, and in the future I will try to ensure that my behaviour reflects as such."

"Don't _try_," Diana ordered, jabbing a bony finger at him, "_do_. If you have nothing more to add, then I will bid you good day. And Arthur, whatever Miss Morag has in store for you, I not only hope it is good, but if you keep this sort of conduct up, I may have a few suggestions myself!"

Arthur paled. Diana's stare did not waver. _Shit, the woman means it,_ he realised. "Er, Diana, have you been to breakfast yet?" he asked timidly. "Care to accompany me?"

"As I have already dined, I must sadly be deprived of that pleasure," Diana said primly in a tone that suggested that she felt anything but "deprived," and that only those who rose before the house elves were up were worth mentioning. Arthur, with his bed hair and askew tie, clearly did not fall into that category. "The first prefects meeting is tonight, which we will of course officiate. I will see you then." She turned and walked back towards the girls' dorms.

* * * * *

In the Great Hall Veronica put down the muffin she was buttering and said with careful nonchalance, "Oh, as I was leaving our common room today, I heard Arthur and Diana having a wee chat."

Molly looked up from her toast while Lucille similarly abandoned her sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes. How Lucille managed to eat all that crap without putting on a sliver of fat was a mystery to Veronica. Satisfied that she had everyone's attention, she continued, "And I do believe it was something along the lines of your little incident on the train, Molly. Now then, why, if _you_ were the one that flashed our very own Head Girl, would she be talking to Arthur?"

"Perhaps they're collaborating in order to figure out the best punishment for her," Lucille suggested, almost hopefully. She was feeling touchy because, while herself and the other passengers of the car had detentions for the remainder of this week, Molly had emerged unscathed from Diana's wrath. Veronica suspected this was because the head girl was too embarrassed to mention the incident to anyone, and in order to give Molly a detention, she would have to explain why.

"Oh no," Molly groaned, burying her head in her hands. "I forgot to tell him." Veronica and Lucille gave each other mystified looks. "You see," Molly continued, "when Diana asked me on the train why I had flashed her, I said it was because of a dare of Arthur's." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I forgot to tell him."

Veronica and Lucille choked into their cups of tea. Thierry, who had arrived just in time to hear Molly's confession, roared and slapped his knee in delight. "Oh, ze _pauvre_ man," he chuckled. "Eet ees terrible enough ter withstand ze wrath of Diana when oo are guilty, _mais_ when a person 'as done notheeng wrong, oh, 'ow Arthur must be sufferin'! Molly, yer 'ave put 'im through purgatory! Ma 'at goes off ter yer."

"I didn't mean to," Molly whispered, shamefaced. "I was going to tell him, but then I couldn't figured out how to do it, and then I got all embarrassed, and then Thierry made his announcement after dinner so I got excited about that and I completely forgot - oh, poor Arthur!"

"And what else did you tell Minnie?" Veronica asked.

"I, oh dear, after I told her Arthur had made me do it on a dare, I told her that if I went through with it, I'd get to make him do something embarrassing in return."

"_C'est vrai_?" Thierry looked as though all his Christmases had come at once.

Molly nodded mutely.

"And I don't think Arthur would blow your cover, would he?" Veronica asked, an identical look on her face to Thierry's.

Another nod from Molly.

"Well, then," Lucille began after she and Veronica had shared a look, "it seems to me that both of you lied to Diana, and if she were to find that out, well, who knows what she would be capable of doing?" Molly looked stricken. "If you told Diana," Lucille continued, "that you double-dared each other, yet failed to give Arthur a task, things would look very suspicious indeed. So it appears that the safest option for everyone would be if you went ahead and gave him a dare."

"Yes, yes," Molly nodded absently, "that would be a good idea. Of course, it would have to be something mild, after all I've done to the poor man, I couldn't make him do anything humiliating." She looked up to see Veronica and Lucille shaking their heads from side-to-side solemnly. "What?"

"Oh, Molly dearest, no," Lucille told her soberly. "That wouldn't do at all."

"Why ever not?" Molly demanded.

"You see," Veronica stepped up to the plate, grinning broadly, "daring someone to flash the head girl would be pretty full on in anyone's book. So you can't just get him to recite Shakespeare in Transfiguration or something like that. No Molly, if you give him a wimpy dare like that the game will be up. The punishment has to fit the crime."

"A wand for a wand," Lucille nodded. 

"But I don't want to embarrass Arthur," Molly protested. "And I don't think I could ever think of anything like that of him to do."

"Of course _you_ couldn't, dearest," Lucille soothed. "You're everyone's second mum, there's no way we would expect that sort of behaviour from you, and we wouldn't want you to change either." Molly looked relieved. Lucille's eyes lit up wickedly. "Which is why _we_ have decided to make up the dare for Arthur."

"Oh, don't!" Molly begged.

"Zat eez right," Thierry smirked. "An' since eet should be sometheeng of a similaire magneetude, eet should involve nudity _aussi_."

"Brilliant," Lucille breathed.

"And naked dancing," Veronica countered. "He says he's making good progress on your record player, Lucille - ooh, he could strip!"

"Guys, this is too much-"

"But it would be a shame to waste that lovely voice of his," Lucille put her two sickles worth in. "I know! He could sing, strip _and_ dance to one of my records!"

"Genius!" Veronica applauded. 

Molly had gone the colour of raspberry cordial. "How you three Slytherin sneaks ever made it into Gryffindor, I'll never know," she said. "Now enough with the humiliation, please! Surely even you lot can't think of anything worse-"

"And ee can do eet _dans_ le Gryffindor common room _sur_ Friday night," Thierry concluded. "Zat way when people go to 'Ogsmeades on Saturday, zey weel 'ave sometheeng to talk about. _Tout l'ecole savoiront_!"

"Yes, the whole school _will_ know!" Lucille echoed Thierry, which had the added benefit of translating what he had just said into English. "Thierry, you are so fucking brilliantly evil! I love it!"

Unlike Veronica, Molly was not really in the position to marvel at a rare and wondrous moment that involved Thierry and Lucille actually getting along. Instead, she had buried her head in her arms and was groaning.

Sparing Molly from further torment, Zachary Lupin and Holly Wood had arrived. "Our schedules grate this year," the petite brunette announced as she and Zachary plonked down on either side of Thierry. "I have Finch right after breakfast - before my food even has time to settle in my stomach. At least I'm with the Hufflepuffs though. How about you guys?"

"We haven't actually looked at our schedules today, have we Molly?" Lucille asked rhetorically, which was just as well, because Molly didn't respond. "Oh blast it! We have Finch right before lunch, talk about ruining your appetite."

"An' yer appetite cannot afford ter be ruined any more," Thierry chipped in, casting an assessing eye over Lucille's twig-like build. She blushed and scowled, hunching over to obscure Thierry's view. "Do not bothaire, _cherie_, yer 'ave about as much ter 'ide as I do."

"If you ask me," Molly said quickly, seeking to diffuse Lucille and Thierry's argument, "the best time to have a pinch of Finch is during lunch, meaning no one has him for class at all and you get to bite him!" She said this with such venom that even Lucille started to laugh.

"So delighted to see that I am providing some form of entertainment for students who have no lives of their own to discuss," a voice drawled form behind her. Molly sunk lower in her seat. "Ten point off Gryffindor for disrespectful conduct towards a professor. And Miss Black, you're looking a little peaky this term. I would suggest, in fact strongly - no, _strenuously_ - recommend beauty sleep in your case. And do kindly remove that revolting mess from around your eyes before I see you during third hour. One can only accentuate their good looks when they have them to begin with."

The corners of Lucille's mouth plummeted towards the floor. "So are we ter zen assume zat yer are withaired _avec_ age and not simply ugly?" Thierry enquired icily.

"Such insolence!" Finch snapped. "I will not tolerate this lack of behaviour, especially from a foreigner! A further ten points from Gryffindor, at this rate your cosy little alcove of Muggleborns and half-bloods and your beloved Dumbledore will soon be in negatives."

"Like you?" Thierry enquired.

"Ten more points, that is," Finch said with great satisfaction. Thierry scowled. "Keep on talking my dear frog, it is almost solely to your and Mister Weasley's antics that we owe winning the house cup for the sixth year in a row. And I will see you in detention tonight. Eight o'clock sharp." With that he spun on a sharp black heel and strode off.

"Zat, zat _cochon_!" Thierry spat. "_N'inquiete pas_, Lucille, I think yer look vair nice today." Lucille gave him a hesitant smile. "En fact, do yer 'ave any more of zat stuff _avec_ yer?"

"Yeah, here it is," Lucille said, producing a black eyeliner pencil from her pocket and dropping it into his palm. "Wait, why do you want it?"

"Keep steel, I won't 'urt yer," Thierry said, leaning across Holly. He gently cupped Lucille's chin in his hand, forcing her head upwards, and began to thicken the eyeliner around her eyes. "Eef 'e 'as _un probleme_ weeth yer eyeliner, I weel give 'im eyeliner!"

"Um, Thierry," Lucille began as she tried to squirm away, "you do realise that the point of makeup is to make people look better? I'm going to look like a right fool." Veronica began to chuckle, for Lucille now looked like she had gone a round with a heavyweight boxer and come off by far the worse.

"No yer won't, _parce que_ we all weel wear eyelinaire!" Thierry declared, finishing with Lucille and subjecting Holly to the same fate. _"Tout le table! _We weel give 'im so much "revoltin' mess" zat 'e weel not no where ter look!" Lucille had borrowed a mirror from a girl further down the table and was starting to laugh at what she saw.

* * * * *

Eventually Thierry persuaded almost the entire house to don Lucille's eyeliner, which by the end of breakfast was worn down almost to a thin stub. "I'll have to owl Mama for some more," Lucille had mused, looking regretfully down at what was left of the pencil. Molly's third year sister, Rhiannon, also had some red lipstick, so Molly and Lucille showed up to their third period Potions class looking like turn-of-the-century clowns.

Finch didn't have clowns on the mind though. "You both look like scarlet women," he sneered as they deliberately took seats near the front of the room. "Which is fitting considering both the colours and the morality of the house which you suffer your presence with."

Molly and Lucille both stared back at him levelly. Because their make-up had intended provocation, they were neither surprised nor offend by his comments. "Morag!" Finch spat suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

If Finch had not been looking right at her, Molly would have rolled her blackened-out eyes. Finch went through this same routine every year, without fail, and it was never a Slytherin who was selected to answer these questions. An idea had popped into her head. Underneath the table she elbowed Lucille. "A stone taken from the stomach of a goat that will save you from most poisons, sir?" she suggested timidly.

Finch's eyebrows shot upwards. She could hair a few scattered titters from her classmates behind her. "Black, by name and reputation!" he snapped. Lucille merely inclined her head coolly. She had told Molly that the Potions master had been subjected to some utterly nasty, but thoroughly deserved, pranks by her father while they were at school together. "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"They are the same plant, which goes by the name of aconite, sir," Lucille replied shyly, the corners of her mouth twitching. Behind them a few more voices were added to the laughter.

"Well, then," Finch drew himself up to his full height, which was a very imposing five and a half feet. "Let me once again resume the search to find a single brain cell in Gryffindor house. Lupin! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"My first guess would be," Zachary mused, his golden eyes glinting in concentration, "that they would make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death." Molly winked at Lucille. The prefect had obviously decided to go along with their game. "However, Professor Trelawney taught me that there is always something in a name, and if you permit my saying so, sir, monkshood does sound rather obscene." A few girls were looking outraged. The rest of the class, including Molly and Lucille, had collapsed with laughter.

Finch's nose was now visibly twitching. "Mr Lupin, it is _Asphodel_ and _Wormwood_ that make a sleeping point so powerful that is known is the Draught of Living Death!"

he snarled. "Which I believe was the answer you were racking the "To Let" for spot in your head that most people rent out to their brains for, Miss Morag."

Molly and Lucille shot each other open-mouthed looks. Zachary clapped a hand to his forehead and moaned, "Dang! So _that_ was the question I missed on my OWL!" There was a thump behind them as a Ravenclaw laughed so hard that he fell off his stool. 

"A _Bezoar_ is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat that will save you from most poisons, Miss Black," Finch continued icily. Lucille gave a Molly a wow-wouldn't-you-know shrug. "Although I am becoming increasingly relieved that _you_ are not in possession of that particular snippet of information. My hand may just slip over your pumpkin juice one of these days. And, finally, monkhood and wolfsbane are the same plant, apparently similar in properties to the one the three of you appeared to have indulged in before gracing us with your presence."

"Wow, now that _is _useful information," Zachary grinned. "Thank you, sir." Molly clapped a hand over her mouth. Lucille had conveniently started to cough. The rest of the class was not so subtle in their response. 

"Silence!" Finch roared, and the noise instantly fell to pin-drop level, save the isolated nervous giggle from a girl in the back of the room. "Bell, I will deal with you later."

"Later?" Molly whispered to Lucille. "After the _bell_, perhaps?" The part-French witch buried her head in her arms, shaking with silent laughter.

"As for the three delinquents from Albus Dumbledore's house, little surprise there, for your insolence I will remove one point from Gryffindor. _Each_."

"He's giving us one each," Zachary said to his neighbour, Sylvian Davies. "Can't really split one into thirds, can we? That's Slytherin generosity for you. I almost feel as though Christmas is here already." Sylvian was wiping a tear from his eye.

Very lucky Finch did not hear Zachary. "A further three points will also be removed for each of you failing to locate in those uncharted recesses of your malnourished brains the correct answer, and a detention for Mr Lupin for his oh-so-brilliant attempt at a pun," he continued. "A vital ingredient of punning is eloquence, Mr Lupin, which you appear to severely to lack. Six points off Gryffindor already, and we are not even five minutes past the hour. You _are_ outdoing yourselves today."

"But sir," Lucille protested, "if you were to look at it more closely, on a technicality we all did get the right answer. But to each other's questions."

The giggling from the back of the room once again started up. "It appears you have company in detention, Mr Lupin," Finch drawled.

"But what if she already has a detention after school today?" Alistair Bell asked. "Not that Mr Lupin would mind your generosity in keeping him company with the leggiest brunette in the school, that is." Lucille turned bright red. "Now if only Miss Morag could act up a bit more during this lesson, you'd make all his dreams come true."

For a moment Finch was rendered speechless, his mouth snapping open and shut like a goldfish. Much like the period of stagnation when someone sees a glass of milk about to topple over but know they are too far away to do anything about it, the class waited for the tidal wave to hit. When it finally came, it was with spectacular devastation. "I am at the end of my tether!" Finch roared. "Your insolence has brought about a change of plan. Instead of beginning the Headache Banishment Drought, we will review the Shrinking Solution which you all should have mastered during third year." He shot a look at Lucille, who gulped. Potions wasn't her forte. "And after class, every single one of you will feed your solution to your beloved familiar." At the news a sea of white faces greeted him. All was once again right with the world. "If you fail to follow the procedure correctly, well, they may be a few owls sent out to Daddy asking for a new one." This retort seemed to be particularly aimed at Lucille, whose family was known as being wealthy and who had a reputation of being something of a daddy's girl. For the first time that hour, Finch smiled. "The instructions are on page 241. You may now begin."

"Blimey," Molly whispered to Lucille.

They were soon elbow-deep in ingredients, lips pursed in concentration. "Hey, Arabella," Molly heard Gryffindor Belmaine Burnett call to an attractive dark-haired Ravenclaw, "want to skin my Shrivelfig?"

Molly sent him a _don't push it, we've had two detentions already_ look and tried to think disapproving thoughts but inside she was laughing. Zachary was tut-tutting comically. "_Shrivel_fig's like it in his case," Sylvian quipped. 

"I am an innocent little Irish girl," Molly told herself, "and did not understand any part of that last statement."

Next to her, Lucille scoffed, "Oh, come off it, Molly."

* * * * *

For whatever reason Arthur had been selected as Head Boy, it was not because of his time-keeping skills. It was twenty past seven and he was, as usual, running late - though not by his standards. His glasses were sliding forward over his nose and he had tripped on the hem of his robes twice on his way downstairs. Finally he reached the lounge next to the library that was the prefect's domain. His entrance, noticeable anyway for its tardiness, was even more pronounced when, yet again, he tripped over the hem of his robes and fell flat on his face. Blair Zabini, one of the two Slytherin prefects, rolled his eyes disdainfully.

At the thud Arthur made, Veronica looked up calmly and glanced at Zachary. "Do you want to say it, or should I?" she asked.

"You thought of it first," Zachary shrugged amicably. "You do the honours."

Veronica cleared her throat and looked over at the doorway. "Nice of you to drop in, Arthur."

"Er, thanks, Veronica," Arthur said absently, dusting off his robes and making his way to the two seats at the head of the semi-circle of prefects that had been reserved for himself and Diana. The head girl coolly nodded at his stammered apology and flicked open a well-worn notebook. "Now, first on the agenda," she began, "introductions will be made. You must pair up with someone outside of your own house, find out their full name, favourite food, colour and Beatles album-" here Arthur grinned "-how many siblings they have and what their hobbies are. Five minutes later, we will reassemble and you will introduce your partner to the rest of the group. Arthur Weasley and myself will, naturally, introduce each other."

Veronica noticed that Diana's nose was twitching with disapproval as she said this. She guessed that the head girl didn't relish the idea of losing some of her mystique, and no points for guessing which head student had thought of this icebreaker. Zachary glanced across the room, where both Slytherin prefects glowered at him. "I'll take Zabini," he volunteered, rising to his feet.

"Brave man," Veronica said. Zachary had reacquainted himself with Zabini, who looked as though he was being visited by his least favourite aunt. Cordelia Sinistra, the female Ravenclaw prefect, had befriended her Hufflepuff opposite and a very nervous looking Sylvian Davies was currently stammering out his vital statistics to the second Slytherin prefect, who although wand-thin looked as though she could swallow all of the Fabulous Four in one gulp. She glanced to her left and found a boy seated next to her, fiddling with his black and yellow tie.

Because she had initially entered the room and made a beeline for Zachary, Veronica had not noticed him there. Now that she had, she was surprised it had taken so long. The boy was tallish, about five-eleven, and had wavy blond hair that curled about his collar and chocolate-brown eyes, her favourite colour combination. She also had the distinct impression that he had dimples when he smiled. Unfortunately he was not smiling now. His hands were twisting into the striped fabric of his tie as if he was faced with something particularly unpleasant to do.

Another girl would have been offended by the lack of interest he was showing in her direction. It wasn't that Veronica wasn't either, but her friendliness and natural curiosity about other people made her resolve to seek out the cause of the prefect's ill-ease and talk it away. "I'm Veronica Vector," she said, offering a hand. The Hufflepuff took it reluctantly. "I'm a seventh year and the male Ravenclaw prefect."

"Ravenclaw? Male?" The boy's bored expression slipped from his face. She had successfully shocked him into paying attention. "B-but your tie is scarlet and gold, and you are very much-" his eyes took in her body and he started to blush "-er, not a male."

"I'm glad someone realises," Veronica joked. "If my housemates are aware of that, they're certainly not letting on!" The prefect raised one eyebrow. Feeling as though she may have revealed too much, she added, "and you are?" The boy muttered something inaudible. Leaning forward, Veronica said, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch what you said just then."

"My name is William," the boy said, looking as though he was about to cry. "I'm Will Zjablomej."

****

* * * * *


	5. Scheming and Dreaming

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: Alright, now that we've all read _Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix_, there are obviously a few minors things that I've have to change about this fic. My perceptions of a main character's home life have changed a lot after finishing the book. At thought I thought this was a problem, but later on I realised what a great opportunity it was to explain the way this character has been behaving. So now I've really embraced it, and parts of this fic will be a little darker than I was planning. It also makes a game in this chapter I'd thrown in this chapter more necessary to balance out the darkness in the next few. 

Disclaimer: The Assassins game is based off the fic "Assassins and Lovers" by Evie Black, which is extremely well-written with some obscure pairings that become believable in her hands. In other words, go read it. And I still own nothing.

****

* * * * *

Chapter Five: Scheming and Dreaming

Veronica blinked. "Did you just say you were named, um, I'm sorry, but Will Yablowme?"

"Yes, that's right, I'm Mr Will Zjablomej," William said, some bitterness creeping into his voice. Seeing Veronica struggling to bite down on a smile, he added, "Go ahead and laugh right now if you want to. I know you do. Just get it over with."

Veronica _had_ wanted to laugh, but now that he had put it so bluntly and she could see how hurt he was by people's reactions, the urge was gone. "I'm sorry," she said, and saw some of the ill humour fade from William's eyes. "Is that, uh, Russian in origin?"

"Czech," William shrugged. "I think. And unfortunately as the Zjablomej's tend to produce a lot of male offspring, it's still around. How there manages to be so many of us, I'll never know. I didn't think any girl in her right mind would want to marry someone with a surname like mine. I know _I _wouldn't."

"You could always marry someone and take her last name," Veronica suggested. Listening to Lucille did pay off sometimes. "There's a lot of talk going around about how sexist it is, the woman talking the man's name, and some Muggle couples these days are either having joint last names or completely talking the wife's."

"Yeah, I guess I could do that," William said. "_You_ have a lovely surname, you know." He caught her curious look and ducked his head. She could feel herself going hot. "Some blokes think it's demeaning and unmanly and all that sort of stuff, but I can't wait for my surname to die out," he continued. "What do you think of all that equality talk, by the way?"

Veronica thought carefully. By lunch time news had travelled round about Thierry's proposed changes to the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and some people had cast unfriendly eyes in the part-Veela's direction. What had surprised her more than anything was that some of the eyes had been female. Some people didn't know what was good for them. "I think sometimes feminists are a bit too aggressive and go the wrong way about things," she said eventually. "But I also think a lot of what they say has a point. I mean, during flight classes in my first year I flew better than some of the boys who are on their house teams now and I'm as tall and strong as some men. Why shouldn't I be able to play Quidditch?"

"I couldn't agree more," William said and Veronica felt relieved, although she didn't know quite why. "I mean, except with a really dirty team like Slytherin, there isn't a lot of contact in Quidditch - well, only the Seekers, and they're pretty tiny anyway. I've been on the Hufflepuff team since my third year, and size is really only important if you're a Beater because then the strength aspect comes into it then. And it helps to be tall if you're a Keeper, but it's not essential."

"What year are you?" Veronica asked.

"Fifth," William responded. 

"Oh," Veronica said, feeling slightly disappointed. Again, she wasn't quite sure why. "I'm a seventh year. I was just wondering why I haven't had any classes with you and haven't really noticed you around until now. You look older."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," William said. "You're friends with Amos aren't you?" Veronica nodded. "I was wondering where I'd seen you before." He glanced over at the other groups and saw that Zachary and Zabini were looking idly away from each other. "I suppose we better get onto the favourites now. They really don't look comfortable." He and Veronica shared a look and laughed.

A few minutes later Diana gathered everyone back together. Arthur was as much an observer in this as she was, and Veronica had the idea that was how things would be from now on. "Now as discussed before, you will introduce your partner to the rest of the group. Zachary and Blair, you two finished quickly. You must have been organised." Her voice was almost warm with approval. "Why don't you go first?"

Zabini rose to his feet, smirking dangerous. Zachary looked nervous. Arthur and Veronica shot each other quick glances. _This_ would be interesting. "Zachary Lupin has one younger brother and his favourite food is roast mutton," Zabini said idly. "His favourite colour is yellow and he enjoys chess, scrabble and reading. He does not have a favourite Beatles album." Arthur looked disappointed. Zabini sat back down, his idle look twisting into a sneer.

"Blair Zabini also has one younger brother," Zachary continued, deadpan. "He is immensely proud of him as yesterday he hexed his first Gryffindor." Zabini's chin raised slightly, looking both smug and challenging. Diana glared back. "He does not like the food here and his favourite colour, surprisingly, is black." Veronica giggled. Arthur tried not to smile. "He doesn't like Quidditch, chess or Exploding Snap - and he thinks the Beatles have been stealing lyrics from the Familiars for years. That is all."

"Zachary, Blair, um, thank you for sharing," Arthur said, clearly at a lost for words. The Hufflepuff prefect next to Zabini had shifted her chair away from him slightly. "Er, Veronica and William, what have you two found out about each other?"

"Veronica Vector's favourite colour is green," William began. "She has an older brother who has been out of Hogwarts for two years and is working as a dragon keeper in Romania." At this Sylvian's eyes lit up. "Her favourite food is Bubble and Squeak and she enjoys going to Hogmeades on the weekend and playing Quidditch. Her favourite Beatle's album is _Please Please Me_." Seeing Arthur's disappointment, Veronica had racked her brains thinking of a title and whispered it to William. "In fact," he added, smiling, "she seems to want to adopt this as a life philosophy."

A few people laughed, including Veronica. This was the first genuine glimpse of humour William had revealed all evening. "William Edward Zjablomej," she had figured the dirty phrase would be less apparent if she inserted his middle name, "is an only child and his favourite colour is orange. He likes both watching and playing Quidditch and the team he supports is the Chutley Canons." To their left Arthur gave William a thumbs-up sign. "His favourite Beatles album is _A Hard Day's Night_."

"Excellent!" Arthur beamed. "I'm sure we will have plenty to talk about!"

"Sorry," Veronica mouthed to William, who was wincing. Her partner had not even heard of the Beatles, but had also picked up on Arthur's disappointment and kindly allowed her to choose an album on his behalf. Evidently news of Arthur's Muggle obsession had travelled over to the black and yellow striped domains of Hufflepuff house.

The remaining four prefects introduced each other. Flora Sprout's hobby was, fittingly, gardening. The fearsome-looking Slytherin prefect, Georgina Flint, enjoyed knitting and crocheting. Arthur and Diana then introduced each other. Diana, unsurprisingly, counted playing chess and reading biographies among her hobbies, while Arthur's interests were all to do with Muggles. Veronica knew he had only mentioned about half of them with the rest, including taking Muggle electrical appliances apart and rebuilding them using magic, were illegal.

With this done, Veronica thought the meeting would continue with more conventional items, but Arthur stayed on his feet. "It has been decided between Diana and myself," he began, "that the prefects could use a little game to get to know each other better."

Diana's nose was pinched; this clearly had not been an idea of hers. The Slytherin pair were both looking equally unenthusiastic with the idea of getting to know their fellow prefects better, which, Merlin forbid, Veronica reflected a tad sourly, may even involve _socialisation_!

"The game we will be playing will be called Assassins," Arthur continued. Veronica and William glanced at each other; this sounded like fun! "Before we depart today, I will give you each a slip of paper. At around ten o'clock tonight, a name will appear on that slip of paper. That person represents the target that you must now kill. And no, Blair, you cannot literally "kill" the person. What happens is that you point your wand at your target, say "_Assassinium_," then your target's name will disappear off your piece of paper and be replaced with that of their target, who will be your next victim. If you are killed, your piece of paper will have "Dead" written on it and you will be out of the game. Is everyone with me so far?"

"When can you kill your target?" Veronica asked.

"I'm coming to that," Arthur said. "You can only kill your target when you are alone with them, and the usual rules about not sneaking outdoors after dark or going into other house's common areas still apply. You are also not permitted to kill your opponent if they have been forced into a situation in which they will be alone with you, such as if a teacher sends someone to summon their target, or if your target is your duty partner. Headmaster Dippet is officiating the game and any breaches or controversies in the rules will be settled by him."

"What happens if we win?" Georgina Flint asked. She was still scowling, but had appeared gradually more interested in the game as Arthur's description went on. "And how do we win?"

"The goal of the game," Arthur continued, "as you may have deduced, is to be the last wizard - or as the case may be, _witch_ - standing. Whoever wins will have fifty points added to their house tally."

"Well, that's hardly fair," William protested. "Especially given that if you plan to include yourself and Diana in the game, that makes four Gryffindors and only two of every other house." Zabini was nodding fervently. It was the first time Veronica had seen him express any form of approval over anything anyone had said that meeting.

"Ah, Merlin bless you Hufflepuffs and your well-placed sense of fairness," Arthur beamed. Flora Sprout flushed. "Diana and I already anticipated that worry. Which is why, especially considering that we will hopefully be working with them to ensure that the rest of the student body is kept safe and under control, we have invited the teachers to join in our game." Veronica and Sylvian whooped. "We are making this the one exception in which a professor can win points for their house. If a professor who did not attend Hogwarts wins, the points will be delegated to whatever house the runner up is from. Given that from memory only one current staff member, Dumbledore, is a Gryffindor and I can think of at least three Slytherins, I trust you'll find that a fair arrangement." He looked around the room. No one voiced dissent. "Stupendous! Any more questions?"

Cordelia Sinistra raised her hand. "Can we work in pairs or make alliances?" she asked.

"Planning ahead, I see, just like any good Ravenclaw should," Arthur approved. Zabini rolled his eyes. "Yes, there is nothing against the rules in making pacts with other people. However, in this game I do believe it is best to trust no one."

Veronica felt a tug on her sleeve. "If either of us get each other as a target, can we make a pact not to kill each other until we're the last two standing?" William whispered.

"Or until someone else kills one of us first," Veronica added. "Sure."

"Arthur, I'm confused," Flora spoke up. "If both ourselves and our target have to be alone to assassinate them, well, if we're with them they won't be alone anymore. So since we can never really be alone, how can we kill them?"

Zabini groaned. Zachary kicked him. "I mean alone _with_ your target, rather, Flora," Arthur explained kindly. "But I trust you will figure it out for yourself when the time comes. The game will begin at midnight on Saturday morning. For now that is all from me. Diana, I do believe that you had some other agenda to discuss?"

The meeting then went on to more conventional items, such as tutoring allocations and partners for hall monitoring on weeknight. With her flying skills Veronica was assigned to tutoring children who had difficulties in that area (she had a feeling she would be seeing Lucille sometime soon) and, totally shocking everyone, they were assigned partners according to who they had introduced earlier. Apart from a brief moment of amusement when she had seen Zachary and Zabini's face when Diana had made the pair announcement, Veronica was too excited about the upcoming Assassins game and hardly paid attention to the rest of the agenda. She was not alone in her lack of observation. Diana was looking particularly disgruntled when she finally called for time.

Arthur then went around in a semi-circle and handed out a white slip of paper to everyone. Veronica instantly pocketted hers, resolving to go next door to the library to kill some time. She would never get through the next hour otherwise.

* * * * *

An hour later Veronica was sitting on her bed, laughing her head off. One only needed to glance down at her lap to see why. Etched on the paper in dark red letters that looked like real blood were two words: _Clarity Trelawney_.

"This is just too easy for words," she chuckled. "Now I know that I've have killed at least one person before I go down."

"And who do you have?" Diana asked in a bored tone. The head girl was sitting at her desk, scrawling notes at a rate that would exhaust most people just watching her. She was still trying to maintain a semblance of feeling like she was above the whole thing, but Veronica could tell she was gradually warming to the game.

Figuring there was no harm in it, Veronica chuckled again and said, "Clarity Trelawney," showing her the paper. "You? Oh come on, Di," she cajoled, "if we're to make sure Gryffindor gets those fifty points, we have to work together to an extent. And besides," her blue eyes twinkled mischievously, "if you don't tell me who it is, I'll assume it's me."

"Very well then," Diana sighed and turned her paper around. _Flora Sprout_, it read. "It should be very easily done. Do not misread me, Veronica, she is a lovely girl, but not really the sharpest quill on the back of a duck, shall we say?"

"Agreed," Veronica shrugged. "She wouldn't recognise an assassin if they wacked off her head. Between these two, we should have our first victims in the bag easily."

There was a knock at the door. Arthur opened it, then found himself on the wrong end of Diana's wand. "Settle down, you two," he said. "This game doesn't start until midnight on Saturday morning and anyway, you can't kill when there are witnesses."

"And what leads you to believe this is about Assassins?" Diana demanded, but put her wand away, looking a little sheepish, well, as close to looking sheepish as Diana could get. Arthur came inside and perched on top of Veronica's bed. "So?" he prompted.

"So what?" Veronica shrugged.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Arthur said.

At her desk Diana snorted, whether in disgust or - dare she even think it - _amusement_, Veronica couldn't tell. Shrugging, she opened up her palm and showed Arthur _Clarity_. Arthur gave her an envious look and reached into his pocket, producing his own paper. Veronica gaped in horror. Written on Arthur's paper was _Albus Dumbledore_.

"I know, Veronica," he told her. "It's hopeless. I'll never get him."

"Why do these things always happen to you, Arthur?" she asked.

"I don't know," he responded.

"Di, Arthur got Dumbledore," Veronica told her.

Diana only raised one eyebrow. "I do believe that in order to receive a reply, Veronica, one has to first present a question," she said coolly.

"Oh, you were just itching to ask, I know it," Veronica told her cheerfully. Diana shrugged and went back to her work. "So, Arthur, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he repeated miserably. "I always seem to end up last in these things. I think I'm just too honest, Veronica."

"That's it!" Veronica snapped her fingers together. "You _are_ just too honest! No one would ever suspect you. When you're in these situations, you have to play to your strengths. You can make your honesty, or at least, other people's _perceptions_ of your honesty since you're going to be very dishonest for this to work. Because I know just how to pull it off too."

"Are you two still talking about this infantile game?" Diana queried.

"You're still here," Arthur pointed out.

"I know," Diana sighed, a smile finally crackling her ice queen façade. Abandoning all pretences of disinterest, she got up from her desk and sat down between Veronica and Arthur. "So, how about an alliance?"

"Don't see why not," Veronica shrugged. True, she had already made an agreement with William, but if there were no rules in place against _one_ alliance, she didn't really see why anyone would have anything against _multiple_ alliances, except that they hadn't thought of it first. She would just play both sides and see which one offered the most to her.

* * * * *

Veronica's scheming did not limit itself to Assassins. "Alright then," she paused and looked around at her second group of cronies. "We've established that he's going to strip, and that he's going to strip in the Gryffindor common room before everyone goes to Hogsmeade on Saturday. What we now have to establish is when-"

"-And more importantly, to what song-" Lucille continued.

"-And even more importantly, what are we going ter do _avec_ Diana?" Thierry finished.

"That's a tough one," Veronica conceded.

The trio were sitting in the library on Thursday after Transfiguration, which as an elective was a class they all shared. After he had asked Lucille if he could see Uranus, Professor Trelawney had lost her temper and predicted that Thierry would be beheaded on Saturday, then hanged the following Tuesday. He and Veronica had already changed into Quidditch robes for practice. As the girls on the team did not yet have uniforms, Veronica was wearing a pair from Thierry's fourth year. Tiny Holly Wood was now the proud owner of the robes he had worn in his first year. Possibly because of Thierry, it had been the final year that first years had been allowed onto house teams.

"Well," Lucille paused, "I've got two of the three sorted out in my head. We should have Arthur stripping before breakfast. That way none of the teachers will be up, and he'll be doing it on an empty stomach. So he won't be sick with nerves. I don't think it will be a good idea for _any_ of us to watch him after a big meal, come to think of it. He's kind of scrawny. Not like John Lennon, who's just perfectly svelte."

Veronica rolled her eyes.

"Pot callin' keetaile black," Thierry muttered, but very quietly, since Molly had spoken to him about making fun of Lucille's figure, or lack of it.

"I don't think Arthur would look _bad_ naked." The group's redhead had appeared. Everyone turned to look at her, and her redness developed another dimension. "I-I mean-"

"We 'ave already estableeshed zat Arthur weel not be getting _nu totalement."_ Thierry explained, "which fer one theeng I would not like ter see. We are goin' ter let 'im keep ees leedle undies on. Don't want ter completely scare ze firs' years."

"What I was saying before," Lucille continued with no small amount of haughtiness, "was that I have already chosen a song for Arthur to strip to."

"Oh, oh, Lucille!" Thierry looked ready to self-combust in desperation. Or mockery. "Do tell us oo ze band weel be zat ees performing _cette chanson_!Oh, oo can eet possibly be? _Nous n'avez pas la moindre idée_!_ Nous sommes _about ter die of anticipation. _S'il vous plait,_ Lucille, _avec une cerise sur_-"

"What's he saying?" Molly frowned.

"He's just being a prat, as usual," Lucille shot the "he" in question a withering look. "The whole "we have no idea" and the "pretty please with a cherry on top" thing, when that phrase is _completely_ impossible to translate into French. For those who _are_ interested-" Thierry pretended to yawn, which Lucille ignored with great dignity "-the song will be taken from the album _Beatles for Sale_, which, as the title may suggest, is a Beatles record."

Thierry's mouth dropped open. Veronica began to giggle.

"The song is "Eight Days a Week" and has the perfect rhythm to strip to," Lucille continued primly in a superhuman effort to ignore Thierry. "I have practised it myself." Thierry roared with laughter, causing Lucille to finally snap. "In the sixth year girls' dorm!" she added heatedly. "Alone!"

"Oh, _vraiment_, Lucille?" Thierry grinned. "Are yer sure yer practiced properly? Perhaps yer should 'ave a live audience next time."

"Remind me to knock before entering our room," Molly told her.

"You're all impossible!" Lucille declared. "I'm going back to the dorm to study!" 

"Oh, so zat eez what yer call eet now?" Thierry queried. Veronica and Molly were beside themselves.

"Hmph!" said Lucille. She scooped up her books and marched out of the room.

"Weel, zat got rid of 'er," Thierry said. "I 'ave thought of a way ter keep Diana occupied, _mais_ yer are not allowed to ask me what eet ees."

"_Okaaay_," Veronica said, giving him a strange look. Something told her she'd rather not know. "Well, now that's taken care of, I also have an idea of how exactly we're going to break the good news to Arthur."

"He's going to kill me," Molly moaned, burying her head in her hands. "Oh, poor Arthur!"

****

* * * * *


	6. Twist and Shout

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * * 

Disclaimer: "Eight Days a Week" and "A Hard Day's Night" are owned by the Beatles, as is the chapter title. I'm just borrowing them for my sick, twisted mind. 

* * * * *

Chapter Six: Twist and Shout

One day later Thierry was walking back to the boys' dorms from the common room, a broad grin from his face. As promised he had just put up the list of this year's Quidditch team and was halfway up the stairs when he heard Holly Wood's shriek, no doubt after discovering that she was one of the chosen few. At the top of the page he had included a thank you to everyone who had tried out and the girls who had volunteered to sew uniforms for the new players. Lucille, surprisingly, had been one of these. The rest of the notice went like this:

__

KEEPER: Veronica Vector

BEATERS: Molly Morag, Belmaine Burnett

CHASERS: Thierry Delacour, Holly Wood, Winston Shacklebolt 

SEEKER: Herbie Jordan

ALTERNATES: Toby Abbot (B), Rhiannon Morag (C), Cameron Bell (K), Dedalus Diggle (S)

He was largely satisfied with the final team. With her height and quick reflexes Veronica was the ideal Keeper. Molly wasn't as experienced on a broom as he would like, but she had a powerful arm and was learning quickly. Belmaine would bring her up to speed soon enough. Fourth year Holly Wood flew more gracefully than most birds and her quickness and small size made her the ideal candidate for a Chaser's position. He had almost considered making her Seeker, but she had an unfortunate tendency to shy away from challenges in the air. Herbie Jordan was as small and quick as Holly and had a feistiness that the girl lacked. Kingsley Shacklebolt was an experienced fifth year that Thierry was considering for the captaincy next year. He wasn't as quick as he would like, but made up for his lack of speed with his foresight and intelligent play under pressure.

Given the inexperience of the team, Thierry had also added a reserve team, one student for each position. Toby Abbot was a burly second year whose older brother played for Hufflepuff. Molly's younger sister, Rhiannon, he suspected had tried out more to catch Herbie's eye than anything else, but nevertheless she was decent flier and had potential. Cameron Bell was also a decent student to have on the bench, but he had accepted reserve Seeker Dedalus Diggle more out of pity than anything else. This was the third year he had tried out, and figuring he could use Holly as a replacement if anything happened to Herbie, Thierry hadn't seem the harm in having him on the team. Which wasn't to say the new Gryffindor captain hadn't given him a stern talking-to and told him that unless things improved and improved quickly, he wouldn't be seeing so much as a blade of grass, let alone flying out into the stadium as one of the team come match day.

Arthur was sitting on his bed twirling some strange silver thing about the size of a wand into the side of Lucille's record player. "Who made it?" he asked when Thierry entered.

"Jordan ees ze new Seeker," Thierry told him, pulling off his Quidditch boots and flopping onto the bed. "Shacklebolt an' Burnett are still on ze team from last year. Veronica ees our Keeper, Molly ees ze second Beater an' 'Olly makes up our _troisieme_ Chaser. Ow ees ze record player comin' along?"

"Good," Arthur beamed. "Listen to this." He removed the silver thing, which had a narrow, pointed end and slid one of Lucille's records out of its case, then put it on the record player and dropped the needle onto it. There was a few seconds of crackling electricity, then a singer's voice filled the room.

__

It's been a hard day's night

And I've been working like a dog

It's been a hard day's night

I should be sleeping like a log

But when I get home to you

I find the things that you do

Will make me feel alright

"Eet ees vair good zat oo got zat playing," Thierry told Arthur as the redhead beamed happily on his head, "_parce que_ tomorrow morning, yer weel be strippin' _devant tout les Gryffondors_."

"What?" Arthur barked.

There was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, then Lucille burst into the room. "I thought I heard music downstairs! You've got it working!" she exclaimed, then stopped at the look on Arthur's face. "You told him. Okay, I think I'm going to leave now." She backed out the room and shut the door securely behind her.

"Now Arthur, calm down," Thierry told him, backing away slightly. "I can explain all zis."

"You better!" Arthur snapped. "I'm absolutely _dying_ to know why it's so essential for me to strip down to nothing in front of the entire house tomorrow morning!"

"Weel, _pour un commencement_, eet will not be down to yer notheengs," Thierry corrected him. As he had hoped, Arthur looked slightly relieved. After reassuring the man that he wouldn't be entirely naked, anything he would have to say wouldn't sound so bad. "An' eet weel not be en front of ze entire 'ouse. Belmaine, Cameron _et les autres_ seexth an' sevonth year boys weel be scarin' ze youngaire ones avay."

"And while I'm humiliating myself in front of the - well, the senior students - what will you be doing?" Arthur inquired icily. "And what about Diana? I don't think _she'd_ exactly enjoy the show."

__

Yer nevair know, Thierry thought to himself. Aloud he said, "Eet ees fonny zat yer mention me an' Diana _dans_ ze same sentence. See, I 'ave special plans _pour_ Diana zat weel keep 'er out of ze way."

"Why does something about that warn me not to ask further?" Arthur grimaced.

Thierry grinned lecherously. "Ze reason why yer need ter do zis ees because eef yer do not stick ter what Molly said on ze train, eet weel look suspicious an' yer weel get 'er, an' yerself, into trouble. Also, yer owe Molly. Eef yer 'ad not decided ter show off an' fly so close ter ze 'Ogwarts Express joost zen, she wouldn't 'ave 'ad ter flash Diana an' embarrass 'erself like zat. And ze boys 'ave somehow finded out what she deed, because of Longbottom I think. Zey 'ave been making fun of 'er een class sometimes. Lucille told me. So at least now yer weel give people sometheeng else ter talk about."

"Yes, that's true," Arthur mused. "I feel terrible that boys are saying bad things about poor Molly. When you put it that way, of course I'll do it. Now if you'll excuse me, Diana and I have a few problems with the tutorial list that we need to sort out." He rose to his feet and left the room.

Moments later there was a knock at the door. Thierry looked up, expecting Lucille to reappear. What he saw was Veronica who, like him, was still in her Quidditch robes. For some reason he felt disappointed. "Saw the list just now," she said. "Thanks. Hey, I just saw Arthur leave. Did it work?"

"Like a charm," Thierry smirked, lying back on the bed with his head cushioned on his arms.

"That was devious," Veronica said, looking not the least bit sorry.

"Eet was," Thierry agreed. "I would say zat we should both be een Slytherin, _mais_-" his eyes wondered over to the Mary Quant advertisement, which was now stuck on the wall next to his bed "-I like Muggales too much, _especialement_ ze women!"

* * * * *

As usual on the day of the first trip to Hogsmeade, the next morning Gryffindor was humming. The unusual thing was that the excitement had nothing to do whatsoever with the first trip to Hogsmeade. And the reason for this excitement was currently in his bedroom getting - at Thierry's suggestion - rolling drunk.

"Wales," Thierry said.

"Sweden," Arthur responded.

"We 'ave already 'ad Sweden," Thierry pointed out. "Zat's one mouthful."

Arthur groaned and titled back his head, putting the bottle of Firewhiskey Thierry had passed over to him to his lips and trying to swallow quickly before the hot, bitter taste fully hit him. "Zhou pick on sthen," he slurred.

"Senegal," Thierry replied. "Which would leave yer weeth ze letter "L"." Arthur had indeed reached the stage where he needed things like that pointed out to him.

"Lebanon," Arthur said presently.

"Vair good," Thierry told him, "_mais_ yer 'ave already run out of time. Zats anodaire mouthfull."

"Zhor evil," Arthur said, but complied.

"Yer know what?" Thierry asked. "I can't theenk of one weeth a "L" eithair." He took the bottle back off Arthur and tipped some of the Firewhiskey into his mouth. "Why don' yer pick one now?"

"Why shar zhou drinking?" Arthur asked. "Greece."

"_Parce que j'ai besoin_ a drink for what I am about ter do," Thierry grimaced. "Scotland."

"Ohi forgot. Diana," Arthur said. "Zhang on, Shotland doeshint begin zwith a Zhee."

"An "E," yer mean," Thierry said, fully aware of his drunkiness. Molly had come in an hour early and, seeing the full bottle of Firewhiskey on Thierry's desk, walked out again, clucking disapprovingly. "Eet doesn't eef yer say eet een English. _Mais_ eef yer say eet een French, eet ees _Ecosse_, which does begin weeth an "E"."

"So we're ashepting foreign slanguages shnow?" Arthur demanded. "Zho never zhold me."

"Weel, 'ow many foreign languages do yer speak?" Thierry asked him.

"Zhnone," Arthur conceded. He would have looked sheepish if he wasn't so drunk.

"My point _exactement_. Yer 'ave notheeng ter complain about. An' I am steel waiting for sometheeng beginnin' weeth ze letter "E"."

"Zheengland," Arthur said stoutly.

"Yer 'ave said England _trois fois_ already. Zats anodaire swallow."

"I think he's had enough, Thierry." Molly was in the doorway, staring down angrily at where Thierry was sprawled out on the bedroom floor. "And don't you have to distract Diana somehow?"

"Ah yes," Thierry said, the good humour fading from his eyes. "Good luck, Arthur." He got to his feet and went downstairs.

Arthur yawned and sluggishly rolled over so he could see Molly better. His eyes widened. All she was from his angle, standing above and over him, was legs and, well, _those_. "Zhou look hot," he told her.

"No, in this dress I'm actually quite cool," Molly told him, giving him a puzzled look. "In fact, I think I'll put a cardigan on later. What are you on about?"

"Nushing," Arthur said. Through his drunken haze he realised she had misunderstood him. Perhaps it was for the best. "Zhey, Molly, can zhou do me sha favour? Can zhou hold my zschool robes anch throw shem on right shafter I'm done? Zhierray was shoing to sho it, but he shees he's busy, shand I shon't trust Veronica shand Lucille." 

"I don't blame you," Molly said. "Of course I'll hold your robe for you." She had considered closing her eyes during Arthur's performance, more to spare the poor man than anything else, and now she wouldn't be able to. Well, she couldn't really say no, not when he was looking at her with those pleading - although now rather glazed - dark blue eyes. "I'm going downstairs then. Everyone's waiting. Good luck, Arthur." She didn't know him as well as her other friends and couldn't really think of anything else to say.

* * * * *

In the seventh year girls' dorm Diana McGonagall was pursing her lips in poorly-concealed exasperation. The common room crowd were getting far too rowdy. How they expected anyone to do work in all this racket, honestly! And with OWLs and NEWTs coming up for many of them, well, didn't they have any sense of resposibility? A decision made, she rose to her feet and walked towards the doorway.

As she grasped the handle the door swung open, her guest's much-stronger pull making her lose her balance and tumble into his arms. She looked up to see Thierry Delacour, that infernal Quidditch captain, beaming down at her. Only now she didn't think of him as being so annoying. In fact, she was starting to realise that he was rather, well, _sexy_.

"Allo, _cherie_," the Frenchman grinned. "I was een ze common room thinkin' ter myself, isn't eet a shame zat I am going ter graduate zis year, an' I still do not know _tout le_ sevonth years? An' zen I thought, "Diana McGonagall! Now, _zere_ ees a woman I should really get ter know bettaire better I go!""

"Really?" Diana stammered. "W-Who would have thought?" Dimly she could feel a trail of sweat trickling down from the nape of her neck. Why had she not noticed his smile before? And the way his eyes bore through her like twin black coals, how had those escaped her notice?

"An' so I thought, "What can I do ter know Diana bettaire?" An' zen I thought some more, an' I came up _avec_ sometheeng zat joost ze two of us can do zat weel bring us closaire togethaire," Thierry continued. "May I come in?"

Dumbfounded, Diana backed away from the doorway and followed him into the room. _I'd pinch myself_, she thought, _but if I'm dreaming, I don't want to wake up_!

* * * * *

"Must we sit so close to the front?" Lucille whined. 

"Arthur's going to be nervous," Veronica told her, adjusting her legs as they were starting to fall asleep beneath her. The two of them, along with most of the older students in their house, had been waiting for a good fifteen minutes for the head boy to appear. "He'll need our support. We have to be at the front so he can see us."

"I think he'd rather we hadn't come," Lucille said stubbornly. "Say, Ronnie, have you seen Zachary yet today? He promised he'd let me look at his Arithmancy essay before he went to Hogsmeade." Professor McGonagall, a relatively young witch who was Diana's aunt, was being even more stringent that usual this year.

"I have no idea where he is," Veronica said. "Sorry." The truth was now that Assassins had started, she had become too paranoid to venture far beyond the seventh year girls' dorms and was avoiding the sixth year prefect like a bad case of Trollpox. Arthur and Diana had both shown her who they were after, but for all she knew, there could be a _Veronica Vector_ emblazoned on Zachary's parchment. House loyalty wasn't worth much these days and she wasn't about to take any chances.

A warm body squeezed itself in between herself and Lucille, and Veronica looked down to see Herbie Jordan sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Looking forward to seeing Arthur naked?" Veronica grinned.

"Hell, no," Gryffindor's newly-anointed Seeker responded with a grimace. "I just want to see if he goes through with it, that's all. I've got money staked on it with Belmaine Burnett. Bel says he won't, but I think Arthur has bigger balls than that. In a manner of speaking, that is."

Lucille made a disapproving sound. For a third year Herbie was blessed with a rather remarkable potty mouth. Veronica, however, laughed. "In a few minutes you'll be able to find out for sure," she said.

"You two are _revolting_," Lucille piped up. "Herbie, you're far too young for that kind of talk and Veronica, you're a _prefect_. I have to find some friends that don't talk about that kind of stuff all the time."

"Unfortunately you weren't sorted into Hufflepuff," Herbie told her.

"_Unfortunately_?" Lucille repeated, her voice rising in irritation. "What do you mean by that? I'll have you know I don't lose half as many points from our house as you-"

"Sh, someone's coming down the stairs," Veronica hissed. An upbeat song had started up and Arthur burst into the room to tumultuous applause, his hands clenched above his head heavyweight champion style. Swaying in a way that suggested the Firewhiskey he'd confiscated from a group of Ravenclaws had not gone straight to the Headmaster's office, he did a circuit of the area in front of the crowd and began to sing.

__

Oh I need your love, babe

Guess you know it's true

Hope you need my love, babe

Just like I need you

Hold me

Love me

Hold me

Love me

I ain't got nothing but love, babe

Eight days a week

Arthur had a fine voice, but its effect was damaged from his alcohol-induced slurring and the muffling effect tugging his clothes up over his head had on it. Not that the Gryffindor gang appeared to have noticed. They were clapping along to the beat and cheering as if the Familiars had Apparated into the common room for an exclusive performance.

__

Love you ev'ry day, girl

Always on my mind

One thing I can say, girl

Love you all the time

Hold me

Love me

Hold me

Love me

I ain't got nothing but love, babe

Eight days a week

Eight days a week

I lo-ov-ov-ov-ove you

Eight days a week

Is not enough to show I care

At the last "Hold me" Arthur had got the last of his upper body clothing off and was strutting along bare-chested to the cheers of his housemates. Far from looking nervous he was grinning broadly. Veronica wondered exactly how many shots, if not bottles, or Firewhiskey he and Thierry had consumed before the head boy had made an appearance.

__

Oh I need your love, babe

Guess you know it's true

Hope you need my love, babe

Just like I need you

Arthur had kicked off his shoes and was beginning to unbuckle his belt. Lucille had collapsed against Veronica and was giggling hysterically. Veronica forced herself to look past Arthur at Molly who was frozen in the doorway, her face crimson in embarrassment.

__

Oh, hold me

Love me

Hold me

Love me

I ain't got nothing but love, babe

Eight days a week

With a flourish Arthur had whipped his belt off and whirled it around above his head a few times before throwing it across the room at third year Bertha Jonkins, who screamed as if she had caught Paul McCartney's shirt at a concert. Next to Lucille, Herbie Jordan had buried his head in his hands and was shaking his head, with the older girl patting him consolingly on the shoulder. Arthur started unbuttoning his trousers.

__

Eight days a week

I lo-ov-ov-ov-ove you

Eight days a week

Is not enough to show I care

Tugging off his trouser leg and struggling to keep his balance with a lack of sobriety, Arthur had finally discarded all but his Jockeys. The trousers joined the belt at the back of the room, where two fifth year girls immediately started a tug of war over them. Veronica could not remember laughing so hard in her life.

__

Love you ev'ry day, girl

Always on my mind

One thing I can say, girl

Love you all the time

Hold me

Love me

Hold me

Love me

I ain't got nothing but love, babe

Eight days a week

Eight days a week

Eight days a week

The Gryffindor crowd applauded. Arthur dipped into a bow which turned into a half-run as he struggled against the Firewhiskey in his system to maintain his balance. More than a few wolf-whistles were issuing forward from the end of the room. But the man in question was not quite done yet. Intoxicated as by the cheers and adulation of his housemates than the alcohol pumping through his body, his hands flew to the waistband of his underwear.

A shocked silence fell. Lucille was the first to speak. "Er, Ronnie," she whispered, "wasn't the agreement that he keep his Jockeys _on_?"

****

* * * * *


	7. What Happened At Hogsmeade

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * * 

Dedication: I would like to thank Liz Dockson on fictionalley.org who kindly offered to host some of my fanart in exchange for me beta-ring her work.

Disclaimer: Hell hath no fury like a French Veela. Which you will find out if you attempt to sue.

****

* * * * *

Chapter Seven: What Happened At Hogsmeade

"But Molly Morag, ma'am," the house elf protested, tugging on the left leg of a pair of trousers, "Pookie needs to iron your clothes, ma'am, or Pookie will not be doing her duty as a house elf, and Pookie will be most displeased with herself!"

"Pookie, I am perfectly capable of ironing my own clothes, thank you," Molly said primly, tugging back on the trousers' right leg. While the rest of the Gryffindor students were largely happy with the elves' house-keeping prowess, only Molly's finely-honed skills could find an issue of complaint. After Arthur's "performance" she had lain in wait for several hours for one to appear and make off with her garments to clean and iron them to a level that Molly found indecent.

"But, ma'am, I live to serve you," Pookie pleaded. 

"And I live for pants that actually have a crease down the front of each leg," Molly stated firmly, giving the pants a tug that sent the house elf tumbling forward. "That way people know they've been ironed. To be completely honest, I don't really approve of your kind's way of doing a lot of things around here. You can't clean a toilet properly unless it's by wand, I reckon."

Pookie gave an offended hiss then snapped her fingers, disappearing into thin air. Behind Molly, Lucille gasped. "That's it," she said. "You've done it now. You're mortally offended it, and, who knows, they probably won't even want to come and clean our common area anymore. We'll have to-" she visibly swallowed "-do _housework_."

"And about time too, I'd say," Molly said, replacing her shirt on the pile of clothes on her bed with an air of satisfaction. "No one takes care of other people's property as well as their own."

"Uh, you should see my room," Lucille began.

"Lucille!" Molly cut her off. "You're actually- well, why are you wearing clothes that don't show your legs?" 

"Because I'm tired of the first year boys pushing the armchairs in the library underneath the stairs that go up to its second floor so they can get a glimpse up my skirt every time I go upstairs," Lucille replied. The shortened girls' uniforms had that unfortunate side-effect.

"Boys that age don't have those kinds of thoughts," Molly huffed.

"Molly, we both knew Thierry when he was only a year older than that," Lucille pointed out. "And I also have the first of my detentions for crashing through the stained glass window in the Great Hall today, a detention for which pants are required."

"The _first_?" Molly raised her eyebrows. "Dippet must mean business then."

"He certainly does," Lucille confirmed. "And you know how our dear Headmaster is not one of those old-school educators, how he actually believes that a punishment should aid the development of a student instead of simply being a punishment and all that other clap-trap? Well, guess what my punishment is?" She paused, seemingly waiting for some kind of answer.

"I haven't the foggiest," Molly said.

"_Flying lessons_," Lucille said darkly.

"Flying lessons?" Molly repeated with a smile.

"It isn't funny, Molly," Lucille insisted. "Anyway, I'm to go to Hagrid's hunt and await instruction there. Why I'm not going to the field where we had our first year flight classes, I don't know. It all smacks of a lack of foresight to me."

"Lucille, have you ever tried taking a Knut off yourself every time you complain about something?" Molly asked. Her friend shook her head. "Well, that's probably a good thing. The legendary Black family fortune may very well be no more." Lucille smiled. "And besides, babe, you look fab in those cords. No one can wear flares like you except Mick Jagger."

"I don't want to look _quite_ the same in flares as he does," Lucille grinned. Molly clucked disapprovingly. "Look, I'm probably not going to finish up in time for the Hogsmeade bus. If you're going, would you mind popping in at my place and make sure that Sirius and James haven't torn my room to pieces?"

"Sure thing," Molly said. "I always look forward to seeing your parents, and your adorable little-"

"Spawn of Salazar Slytherin that masquerades as my younger brother?"

"I concede that I may have a slightly different opinion of him had he been _my_ younger brother. Anyway, I'm happy to do it. Now," Molly pursed her lips thoughtfully, "what will I wear? I hope that Amos Diggory is there, he's looking quite spunky now that he's let his hair grow a little over summer." As her eyes fell on her salvaged pile of clothing, her eyes widened in indignation. "That little so-and-so stole my favourite pink shirt!"

"Not _stole_, Molly," Lucille corrected, a smile dancing across her lips as she pulled on her trademark butterscotch leather boots underneath her flares, "_took_."

"It amounts to the same thing!" Molly declared stubbornly. "Look, I bet she's in here somewhere sniggering over me! Come out, come out," she called, started to pace around the room, "I know you're in here! I'm not stupid!"

"No, just insane," Lucille said. "I think I better leave now." She finished putting on her boot and vacated the room.

* * * * *

"Weel, I do not know, Veronica," Thierry said. "Personally I think yer should side _avec_ zis 'Ufflepuff. _Bien sur_, 'e ees _probablement_ not vair intelligent,_ mais_ at least weeth an alliance of only two, yer know oo ter trust. Weeth zee odairs, Arthur an' Diana could be tryin' ter screw yer ovair an' yer would not know until eet was too late. An' 'e ees a _'Ufflepuff_. 'Ow could 'e be capable of deceiving yer?"

"Yeah," Veronica mused, "but I really would like Gryffindor to win those fifty points, and it makes sense to work with Arthur and Minnie rather than against them." They were sitting in the library having both elected not to go to Hogsmeade. Well, Arthur had also chosen to stay, but after sobriety had kicked in, he had locked himself in his dorm with shame and therefore didn't really count. Out of Molly, Lucille and Thierry, she had chosen to confide in the latter about the Assassins game and her own plans for it, judging him to be the one most up to a little underhand scheming and subversion. "Besides, I haven't decided which one I'm going to go with yet. I'll just wait and see how the rest of the cards are dealt before I play mine."

"_Oui, ma cherie_, _mais_ joost make sure zat yer are not being played een ze meantime," Thierry warned her. "Arthur may seem sweet an' innocent, an' ter an exteent ee ees, _mais_ ee ees also capable of trickery. Zere ees a reason why ze Ministaire 'ave not caught eem at any of ees Muggale inventions yet."

"I know all this," Veronica told him. "In fact, I'm counting on it." Briefly she told Thierry about her plan to assassinate their house head.

"Vair good," Thierry nodded when she had finished, "but when ee does go ter carry ze plan out, make sure ee does eet properly. _Parce que_ eef ee fails, Dumbledoer weel zen know oo ees out to kill em, an' ze game weel be up."

"I'd never thought of that," Veronica admitted. "Good point." They had learned to keep their voices low when plotting, not because they were worried someone would blab their secrets, but because Veronica had already been forced to chase down a pair of frightened first years and explain _exactly_ what she had meant by her talk of "killing" people.

The library doors creaked open and Sylvian Davies walked in. Veronica drew herself upright and gave him her best malicious smile.

"It's no good trying to convince me that I'm your target and getting me to relax because I think I know who my killer is, when really one of your Gryffindor friends is after me, Ronnie," he told her, putting his books down in front of Thierry and sitting. "I already know _for certain_ who it is. Flora Sprout happened to trip and my name fell out of her pocket." He laughed. "What a house elf."

"You got me," Veronica said, all the while thinking to herself that Sylvian had just unwittingly given her a piece of information that may turn out to be useful. If Diana succeeded in killing Flora - and who would bet against those odds - Sylvian would be her next target. "Who are you killing?"

"Not telling," Sylvian pressed a finger to his lips. "Like Arthur said, trust no one." Nestled deep inside his cloak pocket was the name _Filius Flitwick_.

"Suit yourself," Veronica shrugged.

Farmers put cowbells on their cattle so that they could hear them coming. In a similar way Veronica, Thierry and Sylvian heard the approach of the many-bangled Divination teacher minutes before she actually appeared. Professor Trelawney walked into the library, saw Veronica sitting across from the entrance, then turned pale and abruptly walked out again.

"Fucking Merlin," Veronica swore, "don't tell me the _one_ time she actually gets a genuine premonition, it's about me being her assassin!" Thierry and Sylvian started laughing. "And I thought I had it in the bag. This is not good. Drastic revaluation is required."

"We're as shocked as you are," Sylvian assured her. 

Veronica was no longer paying attention. The unfortunately-named William had appeared in the doorway and gestured to her quickly, then popped back out of sight. Hoping Sylvian hadn't seen him, she said, "I just remembered, I left an important textbook on my bed. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Once outside she ducked to the side of the door where William was standing. "Glad you saw me," he said. "I was waiting for that French bloke to leave you, but the pair of you seem to be inseparable. Are you an item?"

"No," she answered him honestly since he was a little thrown by the question. "He's my indispensable guy pal, in case of balls and that sort of thing. Even single girls need dates. Lucille Black and I are actually trying to set up Arthur and Molly, but I think I'll keep Thierry to myself in case of emergencies." She couldn't understand what any of this had to do with him, and why she was babbling on about it.

"Black. That name sounds familiar," William mused. "Should I know Lucille?"

"Probably not, since she's a Gryffindor and a year above you," Veronica said. "She's short and skinny with long brown hair that she parts in the middle, and she's always wearing eyeliner. Rather gorgeous." This was the first time that last description had felt like it was being pulled out through her teeth.

"Ah, I know who she is," William said. Veronica felt her mood inexplicably blacken. "Half the boys in my dorm have crushes on her. She's a little bit grumpy, though, isn't she? Not my type at all."

"Yes, a bit grumpy," Veronica agreed. For some reason she was grinning broadly.

"Is there no one else that you'd rather take to balls?" he asked.

"Well," Veronica mused, "I'm not interested in anyone right now, so I guess the next best thing would be to take a friend. At least that way I know I'll have a good time. But it would be nice to just once take someone that I'm actually interested in instead of someone who's only my date out of friendship."

"Me too," he said. They were silent for a moment, then William said, "Shall we go somewhere more private where we can strategize?"

"Good idea," Veronica said. He told her by the arm and led her down a hallway until the trail of students walking past got more and more sparse. His grip felt warm and solid. Beater, most like it, she thought to herself. "Did your dad play Quidditch as well?" she asked.

"Nah, Mum never lets him onto a broom," William responded. "She says he manages to injure himself enough with both feet on the ground. Veronica?"

"Yes?" She turned and found herself staring down the point of a wand. Realisation hit. "Oh, bloody hell."

"Sorry about this, Veronica," William told her. In her shock she didn't even think to draw her own wand and deflect his curse. "_Assassinium_!"

Veronica jerked backwards and hit her head against the wall. William immediately grabbed her arm. "Looks like Arthur neglected to mention that particular side effect," he grimaced. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, no long term damage except to my pride," Veronica said, rubbing the back of her skull and grimacing. "Merlin, I can't believe I went down so quickly."

"Happens to the best of us," William shrugged. "I wasn't planning on killing you when I suggested an alliance but when I looked at my piece of paper and your name was on it, well, it was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. I don't really care whether I win or not; I just wanted to go out having killed at least one person."

"Yeah, don't I understand that," Veronica said. "Especially since that was how _I_ left the game."

"I truly am sorry," he said, looking genuinely contrite. "I deliberated over this for the better part of a week before I made up my mind, and if I had known how bad you would feel after I took you out, I would have come up with something else."

"I believe you," Veronica said, starting to feel ashamed of her lack of sportsmanship. "I was actually trying to play you off too. I had alliances with another group of people, just to hedge my bets, you know. So no need to feel bad." A smile spread across her face. "Your next target is Professor Trelawney, you lucky bastard. And I'll tell you what, since she actually seems to have had some kind of premonition about me being her assassin, I'll make your job all the more easier and won't let on that I've been killed. That way she'll be suspecting me, and she won't notice you creeping up the rear."

"Great!" he said, catching her up in a quick hug. "You truly are the best. Are you sure your head's okay?"

__

No, she thought, _considering that both house pride and points are at stake and I'm actually volunteering to help a non-Gryffindor, absolutely not_. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "I'll just walk back to the library and finish my homework. To be honest I was getting a bit snowed under with Quidditch practice and thinking about this game. At least now I have one less thing to take my mind off my studies." William gave her one last sympathetic look, then patted her on the shoulder and sprinted down the hallway.

Thierry looked up expectantly as she entered. "_Bien_, yer 'ave returned," he said. "I 'ave ter go somewhere an' was unsure what ter do _avec_ yer theengs. Did yer manage ter off 'er?" 

In reply Veronica produced the piece of paper and plunked it down across from him. His eyes widened at the _Dead_ branded upon it. "You know what?" she asked. "I think we both need to reassess our opinions on Hufflepuffs."

* * * * *

Lucille's boots crunched determinedly over the kaleidoscope of leaves that were already beginning to carpet Hogwarts' grounds as she walked towards Hagrid's hut on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. The stark black eyeliner was still present, but there was a chilly wind and she had dressed appropriately, wearing a cherry red turtleneck and mustard-coloured corduroy jeans and pulling her gleaming hair into a high ponytail. Veronica and Molly often teased her about her fondness of flashing some leg, but, unlike some of the third year girls, that didn't mean she was prepared to freeze. And unlike her two friends, it wasn't as though she had any other assets she could display. Thierry had made that clear often enough. She hoped he wouldn't find out what her detention task was, or she would be forced to perform a self-inflicted Impedimus curse in order to stop herself from slapping him silly.

__

Just because he's so capable and talented doesn't mean we all have to be, she huffed silently to herself as she marched along. _You only possess your qualities in relation to other people, so if we were all capable and talented it would mean he would no longer be. It's a stupid thing to want_. Smoke was rising from Hagrid's chimney, and she guessed that even the impressive bear of a man that was the school's groundkeeper was feeling the first bites of winter.

"Lucille, me darlin'!" The bear in question descended upon her and she was scooped several yards off the ground into a hug that smelt of stale cigars and whiskey. "Long time, no see, eh? 'Ows me little girl bin?"

"Great, Hagrid," Lucille said, secretly wishing that he would put her down before she developed a serious case of vertigo. As her first year flight lessons attested to, she wasn't the best with heights. "Sirius lost his first tooth just before I left and, guess what, Da persuaded the Ministry to make electricity compatible with Hogsmeade' magic pocket in our cottage there! So I can play my new Beatles records." 

"Beetles, eh?" Hagrid had finally replaced her on solid ground and was staring down at her, his great brown eyes shining with excitement. "An' ar dey special Beetles, like dem big green ones you git in der Forbidden Forest?"

"No, Hagrid, they're nothing like those," Lucille said, shuddering visibly. "But they certainly are special. They play instruments and they can _sing_."

"Singin' Beetles?" Hagrid's eyes nearly popped out of his massive head. "Say, Lucille," he continued, leaning closer to her, "on dar quiet, yer know, yer don' think yer could tell me where ter git me some of those singin' Beetles?"

"_Hagrid_." Lucille stepped back and gave him a disapproving eye.

"Ar, yes, forgittin' meself," Hagrid said, the enthusiasm in his eyes undiminished by the slightly chagrined expression the rest of his face had adopted. Lucille knew he would be hanging out for the next available opportunity to drop by the Hog's Head, a shifty tavern in Hogsmeade Lucille knew only by reputation, to enquire about the whereabouts of these "singin' beetles." She had a mental picture of the Fabulous Four shrunken and trapped in a glass jar with Hagrid offering them slugs and smiled to herself. "It's yer flight lessons yer after."

"Yes," Lucille confirmed, her eyes darting around the outskirts of Hagrid's property. "Except they seem to have forgotten to leave any brooms."

"Ar, yer won' be needin' them fer this lesson," Hagrid said. Lucille's eyebrows rose. "Dumbledore, a fine Quidditch player in his day, said that yer had a fear of heights an' that ter best way would be fer yer to learn to ride, on ter ground, that is, before yer learnt to fly, so ter speak-"

"Hagrid, I'm sorry, but I don't follow you at all," Lucille cut in. Try as she may, she would never have her friends' patience for the gigantic grounds keeper. "Please try to be a little less evasive."

Hagrid raised his fat fingers to his mouth and gave a whistle that was more like a bellow. Seconds later a magnificent black horse bounded into the clearing, its midnight mane billowing behind it. It reared once and stopped in front of them, then tossed its head and fixed Lucille with an eye as if to say, _So, thinking of taming me, are you_?

"Steady on, now," Hagrid said, grabbing Lucille's arm when she would have run away. "Dumbledore had ter go to a lot of lengths ter git him ter do this. Grand, ain't he?"

"Er, if you say so," Lucille stammered, pressed back against his side as far as she could go. If Lucille knew anything about horses, she would have noted that the stallion stood at over nineteen hands and was of exceptional breeding. "And does Professor Dumbledore actually expect me to, you know, _ride_ this thing?"

"Ain't that what yer do with horses?" Hagrid asked, confused at her less-than-enthusiastic reaction.

"Actually, I usually try to stay as far away from them as possible," Lucille told him. The horse snorted in a way that suggested if he was human, he may have laughed.

"Ar, now, come on, he's as harmless as a baby," Hagrid said, striding forward and giving the horse a hearty slap across the rump. "Oops, sorry there, mate, forgettin' meself- _Yeeoouch_!" The horse had just stomped on his foot and jogged away a few steps. "Ar, yer little devil, yer gonna git it later, eh - see, he's as safe as a vault in Gringotts, Lucille!"

"Has Gringotts been broken into lately?" Lucille joked weakly. The horse turned away from Hagrid and swung its ebony gaze towards her, and she froze. For a minute she thought the look it gave her reminded her of someone she knew, or rather someone that she only thought she knew but knew her far better, but she shrugged it off. Then the horse was walking towards her, its muscular flanks gleaming even on this dull day. Her first instinct was to back away, but it is not the lack of fear but its mastery that makes courage, and - as she often mourned when faced with putting on her uniform in the morning - she had certainly not been sorted into Gryffindor because of what _scarlet_ did for her colouring. Closing her eyes and holding out a shaking hand, she stood her ground. Warm breath flooded her palm and a wet, rough tongue snaked out and licked her hand.

"Ar, ain't that sweet?" Hagrid said, and Lucille opened her eyes. The stallion was now pressing its leathery nose into her palm, sniffing curiously. "He's lickin' ter salt off yer skin. Ye've made a new friend now. He likes yer."

Lucille cautiously slid her hand up the side of the creature's face. His fur was like the softest velvet. She had never felt anything so pleasant to the touch. _He's beautiful_, she thought. Out loud, she added, "How do I ride him?"

"Yer start off best without the saddle," Hagrid told her. "Git a better feel for him that way. I was considerin' the bridle, but he don' take kindly ter the bit - the cold metal part yer normally put in their mouths. Yer must never try ter ride him with a bit."

"Well, how else am I supposed to control him?" Lucille demanded. Despite her fascination with the stallion, fear was lingering in the back of her mind. And Lucille was the type of girl to hide her fear. And people that hide their fear show anger instead.

"Yer just guide him with yer hands," Hagrid continued. "More like a broom in that way. Now I'll just come on over and lift yer onto his ba-"

In one fluid movement the horse fell forward into a kind of bow, extending one foreleg forward and bending down on the other. His back was now lowered to a height where Lucille could quite easily climb onto him, which she did not do so right away. "How did he know you wanted to lift me onto his back?" she asked once she was safely aboard. The horse had even seemed to give her a moment to get adjusted to being on his back before raising himself up to his full height. "Is he magical?"

"He's no more a magical beast than me or yerself," Hagrid told her. "But he's great at readin' humans, and he's one of the smartest of his kind. Now, what ar yer goin' ter call him?"

Lucille thought for a moment. His coat was such an extraordinary midnight colour that she had no choice to refer to him by any other feature than that, but "Black," aside from being her own family surname, was far too plain a word for such an animal as this one. "I'm going to call him _Noir_," she said, remembering her heritage. "That's French for black." Noir snorted up at her as if he approved of his new name. 

"He seems ter like that one," Hagrid noted. "Now, Dumbledore expects yer to do a couple of hours in the Forbidden Forest-"

"The _Forbidden Forest_?"

"-an report back to him after yer done," Hagrid continued. "The forest is fine during ter day, I've bin in plenty of times meself. An' yer new friend Noah-"

"Noir," Lucille corrected him. "Pronounce it closer to "knaw," like how a dog knaws on a bone." She remembered the place she was about to enter and wish she hadn't mentioned creatures knawing on bones.

"-Knaw, he'll keep yer safe," Hagrid finished. Lucille looked less than convinced. "Anyhow, Dumbledore's orders. Now, off with yer." He raised his hand as though to slap the stallion's flank again. Noir swung his head around gave him a look as if to say, _Slap me on the arse again and I'll give you a kick that you won't forget_. Lucille giggled. "Er now, perhaps yer better start him off yerself," Hagrid re-evaluated. "Jus' squeeze yer legs into his sides and give him a little kick."

"Kick him?" Lucille repeated, aghast. "I can't-"

"It's like if yer nod or shake yer head at one of yer friends; it don' hurt him," Hagrid said. Lucille gave Noir a reluctant kick. He started forward in a gentle gait towards the Forbidden Forest, his muscles sliding smoothly beneath Lucille. "Now eef yer don' come back by tomorrow morning, I'll be out lookin' fer yer meself."

"Comforting," Lucille muttered. "By that time I may very well be fertiliser." Underneath her Noir made a sound that she could only describe as a snigger. "Oh, you can just shut up," she told the horse, wondering what, for not the last time that day, she had got herself into.

* * * * *

By around nine Arthur had stopped feeling drunk. By around ten the headache had kicked in. By around eleven his forehead felt as though someone had smashed an anvil into it.

He did not remember what he had done to get this way, but he was sure it had been humiliating. Nor did he care to remember. He knew the other senior boys, when they returned from Hogsmeade shortly before dinner, would fill him in soon and gleefully, but for now he preferred to remain in the dark.

Speaking of dark, never before had he envied the Slytherins their cold, black dwellings in the castle dungeons to the extent that he did now. The thick scarlet velvet curtains surrounding his bed, which had been sufficient enough even to block out Thierry's snores before, now seemed inadequate to deal with the onslaught of sunlight that crowded his battered head. He supposed he could always get out of bed and walk across the room to pull the curtains of the ceiling-high window across. But that would involve moving. And he was pretty sure that had he heaved the heavy quilt off his shaking limbs, nothing stood between him and showing the room's portraits - one of which he had earlier yelled at to stop that infernal racket when it had coughed - exactly what Weasleys were made of.

The one good thing was that he was pretty sure he _was_ in his own room. With that in mind, exactly how bad could what he had done earlier been?

On second thoughts, he really would rather not know.

__

What I wouldn't do for a glass of ice cold water, he thought to himself, burying deeper into his bedding and finding some brief relief from his throbbing head under the coolness of one of his pillows before that too became saturated with his body heat and had to be discarded. If Lucius Malfoy had appeared in front of him he would have happily exchanged his head boy's badge for such a thing. His mouth was so dry his tongue was glued to its roof and there seemed no relief, no compensation for the sweat that was seeping from his body.

__

Don't think of how your head feels, he instructed himself. _Think about what's happened so far this week. No, not this morning. Let's forget about that for now_. He had been running around trying to keep tabs on his new Head Boy duties and fine-tuning his plans with Veronica on how to "kill" Dumbledore. She, along with Thierry and Molly, had been worked to death with Quidditch practice. His best friend was a tough task-master, and with the new changes made to this year's team, more than house pride was at stake. Even Lucille had flung herself into the furore. She with Molly had spent evenings working frantically on the girls' Quidditch uniforms. "Zat eez ze first time I 'ave evair seen 'er _avec_ a needle een 'er 'and," Thierry had reflected dryly one such time. 

Even involved in a domestic activity Lucille could not be sedate. Every now and then swear words would float downstairs whenever she punctured her finger. Not being as adept a sewer as Molly, this would happen quite often. Assumedly bored with the frequency this incident was occurring, she would swear in both English and French. By the week's end Arthur knew how to say "damn," "shit" and "bastard" in French, which were _punaise, merde _and_ connard _respectively.

"What ees zis about not giveeng _objets_ genders een Engleesh?" Thierry had pondered at this last one, no doubt remembering Lucille's Kings Cross lecture. "I thought ze aim was not ter be sexeist."

"Better not let her catch you saying things like that when she has sharp objects in her hands," Arthur had warned, reaching for a fresh scroll.

"Bah!" Thierry had scoffed. "What can zat skeeny leedle zing do ter _moi avec _a needle?"

"If I were you, it wouldn't be the needle I'd worry about," Arthur had said delicately. "It would be the scissors. And bearing in mind her disposition towards our gender, I would comfortably wager the Sacred Blue on the part of _your_ anatomy she would go for."

Thierry had gone green…

Several hours later the room was dark. Arthur had awoken from a fitful sleep and emboldened by the lack of sunlight, had shakingly raised himself onto one elbow and pulled back a corner of the curtain to take a peek at the outside world. Salvation awaited. The window curtains were pulled shut and placed on top of his bedside cabinet was an inviting-looking pitcher of iced water and a stack of glasses.

"Merlin bless house elves," Arthur murmured. He grasped the pitcher and, heedless of the way water sloshed into his bedding around him, put it to his forehead and crashed onto his back.

* * * * *

"…_This is the song that doesn't end. It just goes on and on, my friend. Some people started singing it not knowing what it was, and they continue singing it forever just because_…"

Molly settled back in her seat with a sigh. "Zachary, you're a prefect," she began. "Can't you tell those third years in the back seat to shut up or something? They're doing my head in."

"Technically, they're not breaking any rules," Zachary shrugged. "So, sorry, but no can do."

Molly twisted around in her seat to give the offending students the evil eye. Her own third year, Rhiannon, was fortunately sitting further up the bus with Holly Wood and Herbie Jordan. Well, at least she knew what had become of her pink shirt now. "What third years are doing in the back seat of the bus is beyond me," she muttered. "This is only the first time any of them are allowed to go to Hogsmeade. When I was their age I respected the senior students, and the back seat traditionally has only senior students. What should happen is some seventh years should go back there and beat the crap out of them. Where are some Slytherins when you need them?"

"Now _then_," Zachary remarked, raising one eyebrow, "I would really have to intervene. You really don't like that song, do you?"

"Nope," Molly said.

"So, what do you have to do at Hogsmeade today?" Zachary asked, casting around for a change of conversation.

"Oh, the usual. Thierry's given me a novel-length list of things to pick up from Zonko's - you'd think being Quidditch captain would have given him some sense of responsibility - Arthurs gone and locked himself in his room so I couldn't find out whether he wanted anything, and Lucille asked me to check up on her brother. For myself, I may have time to duck into the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer."

"Count me in," Zachary said. "I haven't had one of those in ages." Molly sighed inwardly. The Gryffindor prefect had stuck to her like Bubotuber pus all morning, and she wondered what his game was. As much as she liked Zachary, she really hoped he hadn't developed a crush on her. Amos Diggory had even waved to her as he boarded the bus. Perhaps it was her new lime green sweater which she had been told brought out her summer tan and was wearing today for that reason. But if that was the case, why then had Zachary stiffened next to her when Cordelia Sinistra, the Ravenclaw prefect, had walked past? It was all very strange.

"Lucille's brother," Zachary mused, "he's that kid with messy black hair, quite tall for his age, hangs out with that Potter boy, doesn't he? Cyril or something."

"Sirius," Molly corrected. "I think he's adorable. Lucille doesn't agree with me though."

* * * * *

"…And then there was the time he and James started duelling with my parent's wands," Lucille sighed as Noir meandered deftly through the overhanging branches of the twisted black trees that surrounded them. "Sparks were flying everywhere. My cat's, Sergeant Pepper, tail caught on fire. And then when I came running in to stop it, there was Thierry Delacour on the drawing room floor, _laughing_ fit to burst. Honestly, sometimes I could just - ow! - hey, there was _no_ need to walk that close to that branch, pal!"

The horse sniggered and continued onwards. Lucille scowled and rubbed her temple. Up until then she had almost been, dare she think it, _enjoying_ the ride with Noir in the woods. "So anyway, this morning, Veronica and I decided that as his dare to cover for Molly, Arthur should strip in front of the entire Gryffindor house. Which was all very well - except for the bit where he got drunk and took off his undies, that is - but then _Thierry_ decides the best possible way to keep Diana out of it is to - ugh! I don't even know what girls see in him. It _has_ to be because he's part-Veela, when you put him next to guys like Amos Diggory and Alistair Bell, he's not that good-looking - _Aieeeee-yeow_! Hey, come back here!"

The horse had thrown Lucille to the ground and jogged away a short distance. "_Ow_, that was _right_ on my tailbone!" she protested. "Come back here you awful, you horrible beast - oh, I mean you lovely, kind, gorgeous horse, please don't run away!"

Noir paused and cocked his head as if to say, _Keep talking_.

"Yes, and you're a special, wonderful, patient, intelligent, even-tempered animal," Lucille continued through gritted teeth, pulling twigs out of her hair and brushing off the seat of her pants with a grimace. "Now will you _pleeeease_ let me get back up?" Surprisingly, the black stallion complied. "And this is all a bit painful now so do go easy on the trotting - hey, I said _no trotting_! Jeez, now I can see why black animals are meant to be the omens of death - that was a joke, by the way, it was a _joke_…"

* * * * *

Just to test Zachary, when the bus arrived at Hogsmeade Molly announced that she had now changed her mind and felt like going to Honeydukes. Zachary, who early been moaning about how the hot day had made him feel parched (Molly's arms had goosebumps on them), apparently no longer required a drink. Molly's uneasiness increased when Blair Zabini, the olive-skinned Slytherin prefect, announced that he would join them. The sweater was working wonders, just not on the one guy she had intended. Molly then "remembered" that she had to pick up some leather grease for Thierry's Quidditch guards. "But you two both seem to want to go," she said. "Why don't you go together?"

Both boys looked horrified. "You're not leaving as alone - together," Zabini said hastily, sneaking a quick look at Zachary.

"Please, Molly, you have to stay with us," Zachary begged, clinging to her arm. "What if he's after me?"

"You could very well be after me," Zabini glowered back.

"Oh for goodness sake, you two," Molly huffed. "Zachary, just because Zabini hasn't noticed women yet doesn't mean he's noticed anyone else either. He doesn't have to be one of _those_. And so what if he is? I know of some perfectly nice men who are, like those lovely boys in the Rolling Stones, for example. Zabini, Zachary isn't after you either. I saw the way he straightened up when Cordelia Sinistra got on the bus." Zachary's cheeks pinkened. Zabini smirked. "Now both of you, pull yourselves together, you're _prefects_."

"That's exactly it," Zachary said earnestly.

"Oh for goodness sake," Molly once again huffed, throwing her hands up in the air and stalking off. She saw the two of them give each other shifty looks before dashing off in opposite directions. Boys, what was with them today? She had seen Ravenclaw prefect Sylvian Davies just before breakfast, who had told her he had forgotten how to get to the great hall and if she knew the way, then bumped into Sylvian's Hufflepuff counterpart, who asked her to accompany him to the _bathroom_ of all places. It had to be the sweater. Well, it certainly couldn't be the hair, which today sprung out everywhere like the most untidy of birds' nests. "Merlin, they're only boobs," she sighed to herself.

"Yes, they are," said someone behind her. "Big ones." Lucius Malfoy was leering down at her. Before she could retaliate he turned around slightly and made to glance out in the direction of the departing Zachary and Zabini. 

Now that he was no longer obviously insulting her, she couldn't really do anything about it without looking hysterical. Molly's hand unclenched itself from the fist it had balled itself into. "And a pair that stick so flagrantly always draw attention to each other," Lucius continued. Molly felt sick. "How they ever made prefects I wouldn't know. In the case of two members of more fortunate old blood families, I would say money exchanged hands, but, well, you see what _they're_ wearing."

Molly's face flushed. While her own family wasn't exactly drowning in poverty, they weren't exactly one of those "more fortunate old blood families" Lucius was referring to. And given the Malfoy sentiments, despite the wealth of their respective families Lucille and Thierry most likely weren't either. Next to Lucius's silk open-necked shirt and black trousers, her prized green sweater felt worn and shabby. "Well, it's still no mean feat making the position of prefect," she said, carefully keeping her tone neutral. "They may even be considered as head boy next year. I mean, can you imagine that there are actually people who apply for head boy or girl and don't even make prefect for their own house? I would die of shame, wouldn't you? Oh, but I forgot, _you're _still standing here in front of me, aren't you?" Lucius did not flush, but his mouth had tightened a fraction. "I'll see you around, Malfoy."

"One minute, Molly," Lucius said, taking her arm in a grip that was loose, but would close around her like a vice the minute she tried to pull away. Up close his green eyes were gleaming with fury. "Now," he began in that deceptively smooth tone of his, "I do not pretend to understand exactly what you and that half-breed you call your Quidditch captain are playing at-"

"Don't call him half-breed," Molly snapped, trying to pull her arm away.

"Temper, temper, Molly," Lucius drawled, "you wouldn't want to make a scene, would you? Now, as I was saying, the motives of such boys as Delacour are beyond my understanding, but someone as yourself should be aware that the Quidditch pitch is no place for a lady."

"I never said I was a lady," Molly retorted.

"That is becoming more apparent," Lucius snapped, his grip tightening around her arm. "Well, be it your funeral then. Just don't assume for even a moment that any gentlemanly conduct the Slytherin Quidditch team reserve for even the lesser wizarding families on the ground will still occur during the match. If you are still determined to act like a man, then I for one will certainly treat you like one."

"Good!" Molly shouted, her temper finally sliding out of her control. "I'm counting on it! Perhaps that would stop you leering at my breasts all the time!"

A group of fourth year girls had stopped to stare at them. Lucius scowled in their direction and they quickly looked elsewhere. "Don't flatter yourself, Morag," Lucius continued in that polite sneer of his. "I have been betrothed since I was ten, and if you had ever laid eyes on exactly who that pact was made with, it would never occur to you to even suggest that I would even spit in your direction." He finally released her arm. Molly jerked it away and resisted the urge to rub at the red spots that had appeared on it. "My, what a chubby little thing you are. I hope I didn't pinch."

There was the sound of running footsteps and Molly turned to see Amos Diggory running over to them, his grey cloak flying behind him. "Is there a problem here?" he demanded breathlessly.

"Oh, don't get on your high horse just yet," Lucius soothed nastily. "Although it _is_ adorable how self-righteous you Hufflepuffs get sometimes."

"My fist is pretty self-righteous too," Amos growled.

"Merlin grant me strength," Lucius sighed, but his eyes had widened and he had taken a few steps away from Molly. "Using Muggle means to settle a conflict? How drole and unnecessary. No, I was merely exchanging a few Quidditch strategies with Miss Morag."

"Well, exchange them with my fist," Amos offered.

"My, you Hufflepuffs don't have a lot of depth or variance, do you?" Lucius scowled. Amos took a step towards him. "Fine, fine, I know when I have overstayed my welcome, which I credit to my good breeding, something that _certain_ so-called pureblood families lack." He spun on his heel and strode off.

"You alright there?" Amos asked. Sometime during his confrontation with Lucius he had put his hand on her shoulder and was now starting to rub it.

"Yeah," Molly replied. It was hard not to feel alright when she could only focus on the feeling of Amos's hand on her shoulder. "Thanks for sending him away. The trouble with some pureblood families," she continued angrily, "is that they think that gives them the right to lord it over everyone else. They think it makes them superior and untouchable, when in reality it means nothing. I mean, look at Thierry, who's half-Veela, and he and Diana are probably the best students in the school. Well, Thierry isn't so much a good student as such because of all the time he spends in detention, but he's probably the most gifted. He was doing NEWT standard spells in his fourth year, ooh, that awful boy makes me so angry!"

"Er, Molly," Amos began, "I mean, I completely agree with you and everything, goes with fair play, but I just think you look a little pale and that maybe we should get something to drink." Molly's heart skipped a beat. "Let's see, I do believe Madame Puddifoots is the closest place."

Molly's heart felt like it had ceased beating altogether. Madame Puddifoots was _the_ couple hang-out for Hogwarts students. She nodded in agreement and they walked to the tiny pink teahouse together, Molly not caring that the hand on her arm was more out of concern than affection. Sure, she knew that. But the fifth year Ravenclaws with jealous eyes they had walked past didn't have to. Her lime green sweater no longer felt worn and shabby.

In her daydreams she had regaled Amos with tales she had told with Lucille's wit, Thierry's sense of mischief and Arthur's eloquence all rolled into one, causing him to reach over the table and take her hand and say, "_I really like you, Molly_." That didn't quite happen, but neither was it a total disaster. They had stumbled for conversation initially until one of them fell on the topic of Quidditch, then they scarcely drew breath. And Amos didn't tell Molly that he really liked her, but he did say the green of her sweater looked nice with her eyes. Molly resolved never to let the house elves near it. She was very regretful when an hour had passed and she would have to leave or risk running out of time to fetch all her friends' things.

Lucille's residence was not on the way to Zonko's, but Molly wanted to wait until lunchtime when the crowds thinned out before braving the jostling students inside, so she bypassed it and headed towards the red brick cottage several streets away. What struck people seeing the Black home for the first time was how, well, "homely" it was. Flowerbeds in little handpainted boxes nestled on the balcony railings and white shutters framed the window. It hardly looked like the lair of a prestigious old-blood wizarding family. Raising her fist, Molly knocked on the front door.

There was no reply.

Molly frowned and knocked again. This time the door popped open softly; despite the house's vacated appearance it had not been secured properly. It wasn't like Hector and Elodie Black to be so reckless. Molly reached into her pocket for the reassuring length of her wand and entered.

The first room she passed was the laundry on her left. That appeared empty. A floorboard squeaked beneath her and she froze in terror for a minute before she was able to continue. What would she do if someone was there? Would she be able to hex the intruder first? She had just passed her second room, the kitchen to her right. Mentally reviewing every curse and counter curse she had ever been taught, most no more harmful than that Longbottom staple, the leg-locking curse, she continued on. Every second grew longer. Every second grew worse. She passed the stairwell. A suspicious shadow had a wand pointed at it, then was dismissed. She would have been anywhere but here - _there, what was that noise_?

She inched along carefully to the last room on the first floor, the drawing room. There. That was where it was. Someone was sobbing. A victim perhaps, but where was the aggressor? Now at the end of the hallway, Molly paused. If she opened the door slowly, quietly, then if the attacker was looking the other way, he wouldn't see her and she would have ample time to Stupify his turned back. But if he was facing the door, he would see it opening and be prepared, whereas she would be off her guard. Flinging the door open would alert the attacker to her presence regardless, but she at least would have the advantage of surprise. A decision made, she leapt forward and hurled her wait against the door.

For all the impact her entry had on Mr Black, she may as well have screamed in his ear. He did not move from his position in front of the hearth and next to a crumpled up figure on the floor. Nor did he register any expression as Molly crawled forward and took the wrist of that same figure. There was a pulse, _no_, that was her own pulse beating frantically. The thumb had a pulse of its own; she had learnt that in her first year. Adjusting her grip, she retook the pulse with her fingers this time. Then the room seemed to rush towards her and her arm slid mutely to the floor.

Lucille's mother was dead.

****

* * * * *


	8. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Disclaimer: The chapter title and the lyrics are taken from a Beatles song. And I am no closer to owning the teenaged Arthur Weasley and co. If the status quo changes, you will be the first to be informed.

****

* * * * *

Chapter Eight: You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

__

Here I stand with head in hand,

Turn my face to the wall.

If she's gone I can't go on,

Feeling two foot small.

Ev'rywhere people stare,

Each and every day.

I can hear them laugh at me,

And I hear them say:

Hey, you've got to hide your love away

Hey, you've got to hide your love away

How can I even try,

I can never win.

Hearing them, seeing them,

In the state I'm in.

How could she say to me,

"Love will find a way."

Gather 'round all you clowns

Let me hear you say:

Hey, you've got to hide your love away

Hey, you've got to hide your love away

For the next few hours Molly had no idea how she had done what she had done, had no recollection of having thought of and ordered herself to do such things. Yet she found a pot of Floo Powder near the Black's mantlepiece, transported herself to St Mungos and alerted the Mediwitches and wizards to the situation back at the Black's abode, upon which half a dozen of them promptly Apparated there. It took only a few minutes for the team to confirm that Elodie was dead. Blood pounding in her ears, she had then found herself back in the main square of Hogsmeades and talking to Zachary Lupin, who she persuaded to accompany her to the Potter residence. She couldn't remember having to explain or convince a lot to the Gryffindor prefect. The look on her face must have said more than she ever could. 

Only faintly conscious of Zachary's hand on her arm, she had then found herself outside the front door of the white wooden house that was always majestic yet inviting, the friendly look on Elizabeth Potter's face faded at the expressions on both Zachary's and Molly's. Summoning a cheerfulness that it would have killed Molly to feel, Zachary had whisked the two boys off with an invitation to the Three Broomsticks. If Zachary's feigned happiness would have killed Molly, then the joyous shouts at his announcement and the quick gap-toothed grin Sirius flashed her as he ran past to follow Zachary and James outside destroyed her. The front door had slammed shut when she finally gave way and burst into tears.

Minutes later both Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet had materialised in the Potter's fireplace. Had the situation been less grave, Molly would have laughed at the way the tubby headmaster had looked tangled up in the much-longer limbs of her house head and Transfiguration professor. Dippet had promptly sent her back to his office, where she had responded to the idle chit-chat of the portraits of past headmasters that adorned his walls with distracted, scattered replies. It was almost half an hour later when green finally flared in the fireplace.

Molly got to her feet, but it was Albus Dumbledore, not Armando Dippet, that dusted off his robes and took a step towards her. "Lemon drop?" he asked, reaching into his pocket and extending a paper bag of lollies towards her.

Dumbfounded, she accepted one and popped it into her mouth, sitting back down.

"I much prefer them over Many-Flavoured Beans myself," Dumbledore continued, smiling at her from behind his crescent-shaped glasses. "In my youth I had the misfortune to encounter a vomit-flavoured one and haven't been able to stomach them since." 

As he talked he walked around behind Dippet's desk and brought the chair forward so he was sitting directly in front of her. Had Molly been in a more collected state of mind, she would have appreciated that he had not sat at his superior's desk. "What happened?" she asked when he was finally seated. The lemon drop seemed to have freed up her jaw and awakened her senses slightly.

"Well, Hector Black arrived back from a lunchtime stroll and found his wife, Elodie, collapsed on the living room floor," Dumbledore began. "You came shortly afterwards and very sensibly alerted the staff at St Mungos to the situation, who have since ruled out all baring natural causes for Elodie's unfortunate death. Since the time we last spoke I have been making several arrangements. Jerome and Elizabeth Potter have agreed to look after young Sirius Black for as long as his father is unable to. Professor Flitwick of Ravenclaw is currently setting up a Portkey to transport Lucille to her mother's relatives in France if she so chooses to go. If you will excuse me, I must now track down Miss Black and be the bearer of grieviously unfortunate news, but you may stay here for as long as you like. I have even arranged for someone to keep you company until I return. Arthur Weasley will be on his way here shortly."

"Arthur?" Molly repeated foggedly.

Dumbledore nodded. "I found him slightly indisposed when I arrived in the Gryffindor common area, but it was nothing that a strong hangover remedy brew couldn't take care of, which I have mastered occasionally being of need of it myself from time to time." A small smile touched his lips. 

Despite her sadness Molly found herself smiling too. She looked around at the cluttered circular office, the portraits snoring peacefully in their hangings on the wall. To be dead, but somehow still alive, and yet safely oblivious and free from the outside world. Right now it seemed a preferable way to be. "This will be your office someday, Professor," she found herself saying.

"Only if I deserve it, I hope," Dumbledore responded, rising to his feet. "As much as I would normally like to enjoy the company of such a charming young woman as yourself, I must now regretfully destroy the world of another. Miss Weasley?"

"Professor?"

"I have not yet talked this through with Headmaster Dippet, the day bringing more important agendas to our minds, but I will add eighty points to Gryffindor house. Thirty for Mr Lupin, fifty for yourself. From what the Potters told me you showed exceptional foresight, poise and tact in a heartbreaking situation. I hardly see our headmaster disagreeing with my decision. I fare you well, Molly." His richly patterned robes swishing behind him, Professor Dumbledore now departed. 

Some of Molly's calm departed with her house head. She sat still in her seat, her head lowered, her knees primly together, her hands folded mutely in her lap. Not being an exceptional student or a Quidditch player until this year, she doubted she had earned so many points towards Gryffindor house in her previous five years in Hogwarts together, let alone in one go. It seemed somehow wrong that Dumbledore was awarding all those points in her and Zachary's names, as if they were profiting from Lucille's misery. The lemon drop now completely dissolved, a lump formed in her throat.

The door creaked open and footsteps echoed quietly across the floor. The leather armchair across from her creaked as someone sat down. Finally Molly looked up and saw Arthur. He was in jeans and a t-shirt but perhaps as a tribute to the gravity of the situation, was wearing his black cloak and head boy's badge. The head students' and prefects' badges were to be worn at all times, Veronica had told her, even when their owners were in plain clothes and at Hogsmeades, because both the prefects and the other students must be reminded of the responsibility they had towards the school. Was this why Arthur was here, because he felt responsible? Would he have been here for any other reason?

As she thought all this Arthur watched her wordlessly, then patted his knee. Molly paused for a moment then moved over to him and sat in his lap, tentatively at first, but gradually relaxing into him as the comfort of having a warm body close to her gently crept through her. Until she had sat so close to him and felt how steady he was in contrast to herself, she hadn't realised that she was shaking. True, his shoulders weren't as developed and broad as Amos Diggory's, but next to her he felt solid and real. She exhaled raggedly and rested her head against him. "Poor girl."

"Poor family. I know." Because he couldn't think of anything else and because there was nothing else he could do, Arthur's hand came up to stroke her hair.

"Her world will fall apart when he tells her."

"It will. And she will never get over it. She'll eventually be able to push it to the back of her mind and get on with her daily life, but the sorrow won't diminish. Christmases. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Around these times it will feel like it was the same day her mother died."

Molly pulled back slightly to look at him. She had always thought of Arthur as an intelligent but blundering goon, often mislead and waylaid by Thierry's sense of mischief. But his words spoke of a quiet maturity and a dignified beginning of an understanding of a sense of loss that they had both been fortunate enough not to yet experience. Death was something they could never fully understand without going through themselves, and Arthur was aware of this. When Dumbledore found her, Lucille would understand far better than she should. "I don't want the points," she said.

"Pardon?" Arthur's sapphire-coloured eyes gave her a concerned once-over.

"Professor Dumbledore awarded our house eighty points because of what Zachary and I did today, how I contacted St Mungos and then he came with me and took Sirius Black and James Potter out to the Three Broomsticks while I told James' parents about what had happened." Molly's words tumbled out, her voice raising in ire. "I don't want the eighty points. It's just wrong. I don't want anything. I just want Lucille's mum back."

"Dumbledore didn't reward those points as payout or compensation," Arthur told her.

"That's what it feels like."

"He wasn't trying to make Mrs Black's death any less devastating for anyone," Arthur continued. The arm that was not stroking Molly's hair had now encircled her waist and he pulled her closer to him. "He was simply trying to acknowledge what you and Zach did today. Because you were strong and steady. You've always been steady. And people just don't appreciate steadiness enough. It's not a flashy quality, but a good one to have, nonetheless." Molly nestled closer to him. "That's all he wanted to do. Show that he appreciated and admired something about you that other people don't always notice, but something that really came through for you and everyone else today."

Now Molly really did cry, and not just cry, but sob heavily. Arthur held her the whole time she shuddered against him, his palm rubbing warm, comforting circles on her back. When she was done she lay silently against him for a while, feeling a bit outside of herself from the force of her weeping and abstractly noting how steadily his chest rose and fell as he breathed. Yet Lucille was as much his friend as hers, and while her family home was in London, Arthur lived in Hogsmeades with the Blacks and visited their cottage there regularly. If anything, he would be affected worse by this than she. _How selfish I've been_, she thought, and raised her head to look at him.

"Er, not interrupting anything, am I?" someone asked tentatively. Standing in the fireplace was Zachary Lupin, brushing soot out of his shaggy, sandy hair.

"No," she said. "Please, come in and sit down." Still looking awkward, Zachary walked over to him and sat in the chair she had earlier vacated. She twisted around to take his hand. "So, what happened after I left?"

"Not much," Zachary replied. "After the Three Broomsticks I took Sirius and that Potter boy to Honeydukes. Lucille's brother probably thought all his Christmases had come at once, the poor kid. It was so hard-" his voice broke for an instant, but he regained himself. "A bit later the Potters came for them and took them home. Dumbledore found me and told me to Floo to the Ministry of Magic and arrange a sub for Lucille's dad for the next few days. Dippet's still with him. He must be broken, the poor bastard. So I did all that, then I came back here." He paused then asked, "Lucille's mum, what's her-what _was_ her name?" 

Everyone was silent for a minute, Zachary's switch from the present to the past tense speaking volumes. "I'm really sorry," he said. 

"You're fine," Arthur said. "It's a hard thing to get used to."

"That's just it," Molly released Zachary's hand and turned around to look at Arthur. "What if she doesn't accept that she's gone? It will be so much harder for her."

"I know," Arthur told her. To Zachary, he added, "Her name was Elodie."

"Is that French?" Zachary asked. Molly nodded. "I just wanted to know because I only met her once, during my first year on my way to Hogwarts, and she was really nice to me. Not Lucille though. She hated me." They shared a brief chuckle at this. "It's just funny how you meet someone like that once and think nothing of it, and the next time, well, they're gone. Wait, does Thierry know?"

"Why?" Molly asked hollowly.

"Well, they may have not been that close," Zachary continued, looking acutely uncomfortable, "but if she was French, like Thierry, then she would have been one of his few links to his homeland. And now, well, that's been taken away from him."

Molly and Arthur shared a look. "You'd better go," she said. "I'll be fine here with Zachary." She got off his lap and perched on the arm of Zachary's chair.

"He might be outside," Zachary advised. "I saw him at breakfast this morning and he said something about not going to Hogsmeades because of detention. Pringle will probably have him galloping around somewhere."

"Thanks," Arthur nodded. "Take care, Molly, Zach."

Once Arthur had gone, Molly took the seat they had once shared. The leather was still warm from his body. "I just can't get my head around this," she told Zachary.

"You seem to be getting your head around it just fine," the slight, amber-eyed prefect told her. "Me, I kind of don't even want to try and get my head around it. Denial only postpones things, but it can be nice sometimes."

Molly took a good look at him. For the first time she noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red. "Perhaps some of that Firewhiskey Dippet confiscates from time to time will help," she suggested. "I don't think he'll mind."

Zachary's eyebrows raised. "_You're_ suggesting this, Miss Morag?" he said. "And here I was thinking you were a good little Irish girl. You just want to get me drunk and take advantage of me, don't you?"

"Am I that transparent?" Molly grinned. "No more than one finger though, mind you."

"You even know what they're measured in. I'm not your first victim, am I?"

"Shut up," Molly retorted. After a few minutes of rummaging through the shelves, she had tracked down a bottle of Firewhiskey while Zachary found a pair of goblets with stems shaped like mermaids. "This bottles almost half gone."

"And it looks like the same one he found in Roy Connolly's bag last week," Zachary said, coming over to take a look. "He must be quite a fan. Still, if I was responsible for Mustard, I'd probably be driven to drink too. Imagine the owls he must get from parents about him. More than all the other teachers combined, I'd say." Molly poured a small amount of alcohol into each glass and they resumed their seats across from each other. "To Elodie Black," she said and raised her goblet.

"Elodie," Zachary agreed, raising his own goblet. The pair clicked together and Molly and Zachary both took a swallow, knowing things would be very different from now on.

****

* * * * *


	9. Lovely Rita

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: My apologies for taking so long to get this up! I just got very busy with university, then got sick, yadda yadda…I thought this would happen and considered spacing out the chapters I wrote during my holidays so that I only put up one a week. I decided against this because I thought it was counterproductive to withhold chapters I had already completed. Why keep them to myself when you could be reading them? And then I wouldn't really be fulfilling my responsibility of getting them up as soon as possible…well, there were many different reasons why I chose not to do this.

Disclaimer: "Lovely Rita" is owned by the Beatles, not me. Rita Skeeter is owned by J K Rowling. I see no reason to alter this.

****

* * * * *

Chapter Nine: Lovely Rita

The prefects grouped around the reserved room next to the library sat silently, every now and then sending curious looks at each other as if to reveal the reason behind this emergency meeting. Only Zachary and Veronica did not seem to share everyone else's unrest; Zachary meeting the eyes of anyone who looked at him with a stoical stare, Veronica gazing down at her lap with her hands under her legs. A few times the Hufflepuff prefect, William Zjablomej, tried to catch her eye. If she had noticed his attempts, she didn't let on.

It was many minutes after the appointed six o'clock time that Arthur and Molly entered, both looking strained and flustered. It was Arthur who chose to make the announcement. "You may very well be wondering why Molly and I chose to call you here on a Saturday afternoon," he said tiredly, removing his glasses and polishing them absently on a corner of his robes. "I will not keep you in suspense any longer. A student's parent has unfortunately passed away this afternoon under unforeseen circumstances."

The atmosphere in the room stilled and the Ravenclaw pair, Cordelia Sinistra and Sylvian Davies, shared looks. "If you don't mind my asking, Arthur," Sylvian spoke up, "who was the student?"

Arthur paused and rubbed his eyes, surveying the prefects hollowly. He was about to reply, but it was Zachary who spoke up. "Lucille Black."

The sixth years, who shared classes with Lucille, gasped. Flora Sprout's eyes began to water. Blair Zabini folded his arms and allowed his eyes to drift vaguely to the right in an I'm-trying-not-to-care pose. "Lucille Black is a Gryffindor, and as such Professor Dumbledore has taken her under his care," Diana continued huskily. "She will stay with her relatives in France until she decides that she is able to return to class. While she will not be rushed in this decision, having just completed her OWLs and with her NEWTs coming up next year, this is an important time academically for Lucille. We are therefore concerned that she may get too far behind in her studies. In the meantime she will need people to owl her assignments and notes to keep her relatively up to speed."

"I'll send her my Potions notes," Georgina Flint, surprisingly, volunteered.

"I can help her with Astronomy," Cordelia added. "That's my strongest subject." Diana drew out a piece of parchment and started scrawling out a list.

"I can do Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms," Sylvian offered.

"And Diana and I can take care of everything else," Arthur said. "Thank you, Georgina, Cordelia and Sylvian. I will write to Lucille and let her know what is happening."

"How did she die?" Zabini flung this question casually aside, but no one was fooled. "And how did you know, Lupin?"

"I didn't strange her, if that's what you're suggesting," Zachary said heatedly.

"Zachary, no one is suggesting any such thing," Diana cut in curtly. "Blair, need I remind you that there has been a death of someone associated with the school, and that some of the students here may have known Elodie Black personally?" Zabini rose to his feet and bowed. Diana looked satisfied. "Molly Morag discovered Mrs Black dead when she made a house call shortly before lunch. Zachary was the first person she encountered when she left the house seeking Sirius Black, who was playing at his friend James at the Potter residence."

"Sirius Black and James Potter?" Zabini stroked his chin thoughtfully. "My cousins have told me a fair bit about those two."

"As the occasion may suggest, Blair, this is no time to bring up past grudges," Diana told him icily. "There will be a memorial service held tomorrow evening for anyone who wishes to attend-"

"What about Sirius?" Flora sniffed loudly.

Diana turned to Flora with an almost kindly look. "Sirius will be staying with the Potters until his father is able to resume his care-taking duties," she replied. "Until the remainder of the school is told of this grievous news at supper tonight, I would thank everyone in this room to keep their mouths shut and exercise tact and sympathy when dealing with those who may be personally affected by this."

One undoubtedly "affected by this" was Veronica. When she had arrived back from a raucous afternoon of Blind Man's Buff with some younger students - cheeks flushed and completely unaware that her good mood was about to be spoiled - Diana had cornered her in their dormitory. She had sat numbly, oblivious even to the reassuring rub of Diana's hand on her back, until it was time to go to the meeting. The last she and Molly had seen of their friend was a stunned Lucille being ushered through the common room by their house head, no doubt to be portkeyed to her relatives' place. She had expected to see the younger girl's face twisted with grief but Lucille's expression was strangely blank. That was what frightened her more than anything.

"Diana and I considered abolishing the Assassins game," Arthur spoke up, "but Lucille's friends, myself included, were of the opinion that Lucille would want us to carry on as normal as possible in her absence. So the game continues."

"Drat," muttered Zabini. Zachary, who was sitting next to him, shot him a black look.

"We have, however, altered the Assassination charm so that when someone is eliminated, rather than "Dead" their parchment will now read, "Out"," Arthur, who fortunately had not heard Zabini's comment, continued. "We felt that to leave that part of the charm as it was would be in poor taste."

"Then it would be very keeping with the Gryffindor ethos," Zabini continued to mutter. Zachary pulled his wand out of his pocket and began to stroke it threateningly.

"Now, the status of the game," Arthur said, blissfully unaware of Zabini's snark. "It has been in operation for approximately twenty hours and there has already been one death - er, one elimination."

"Who was it? A Hufflepuff?" Georgina asked scathingly. Veronica sunk lower in her chair. William scowled.

"The rules of the game do not force eliminated participants to reveal themselves," Diana said quickly. "It is part of the mystery not knowing who is still active and who isn't. However, if eliminated participants choose to reveal their death to others, they may do so." Arthur noticed that Veronica was being very careful not to look at Will, the young Hufflepuff prefect. His intelligent sapphire eyes narrowed in speculation. Something was up there.

"Well, that isn't particularly interesting," Georgina continued. "I mean, if we don't know who's dead, how will we know who to tease?"

"Good point," Arthur conceded cheerfully. "Although I do not do it with the malice some others may apply-" (Georgina flushed) "-I appreciate a good ribbing session myself. Assassins is divided into four rounds, with the names of the victims and the time and place that they were killed revealed at the end of each round."

"Wonder who was the first to die?" Sylvian sniggered.

Veronica looked embarrassed, the Hufflepuff prefect guilty. Arthur frowned. What _had_ gone on there?

"The next item on the agenda," Diana said, rising to her feet with just a hint of _enough of all this Assassins clap-trap _in her voice, "is the up-coming Halloween feast. This year we will have our usual dinner in the Great Hall at six o'clock with all the younger students. However, at nine o'clock the hall will be re-opened for the first ever Hogwarts Halloween Ball."

There was an excited cry from Flora Sprout, who half-rose off her chair and clapped her hands. Diana gave her a disdainful look before continuing. "The Halloween ball will be for students from the fifth year upwards. However, younger students are able to attend if asked to accompany a senior student." Flora started giggling. "Unlike the feast, which you are to attend in uniforms, the ball will be costume-themed," A disapproving twitch had started to appear in one of Diana's cheeks. "You may attend in any costume you so choose, and at midnight a prize will be given out for the best-dressed pair, _best_ being a relative term."

By the end of her talk Diana was looking decidedly grim. Her reaction was quite the opposite of the rest of the room's occupants. Flora was still giggling. Cordelia Sinistra was blushing. Zachary was watching Cordelia's reaction carefully. Even Veronica was looking interested. "Can we take someone from another house?" Georgina Flint asked. Zabini shot her an outraged look. "I mean - I mean," she stammered quickly, "I have _a friend_ who might want to ask a Ravenclaw. I was asking for _her_ benefit."

"Sure you were," Zabini smirked.

"Yeah? Well unlike you, I do _have_ friends," Georgina shot back angrily.

Arthur rose to his feet and held up one hand. All appearances were on him stopping the pair's bickering, but they weren't to know that he was secretly fighting back a smile. "Your friend may invite someone from another house," he told Georgina, who shot Zabini a triumphant look. "In fact, as this is one of the few events in which we can participate with students from other houses rather than against them, I actively encourage it. If no one has anything further to add, then you are all dismissed."

* * * * *

Veronica strode angrily through the halls, the cloak Diana had thrown over her shoulders flapping behind her. She couldn't believe how casually the head girl and boy had mentioned Assassins and the Halloween Ball afterwards, as if the death of Lucille's mother was nothing more than a fleeting news bulletin, one more item to cross out on the "to do" list. Surely they realised the occasion merited more than this!

Her quick footsteps had taken her away from the rest of the prefects and an empty classroom to her left beckoned. Without a conscious decision to enter the room, she found herself seated at a desk inside, her head between her hands and her shoulders shaking with the force of sobs that still would not come. Even now, her eyes remained dry.

"Veronica Vector?"

Veronica raised her head to meet the intruder. Her eyes narrowed into hostile black slits.

Rita Skeeter was a fourth year Slytherin and truly revelled in their reputation. While Veronica felt a grudging respect for Blair Zabini and at times almost liked Georgina Flint, Rita was one of the few of the green and silver house that she genuinely loathed. Cowardly and cunning beyond measure, Rita was the editor of _The Seer_, the gossip column in the fortnightly student publication _The Hogwarts Herald_. Many friendships had been shattered beyond repair by what had been written there. In light of both recent happenings and her friendship with one of the afflicted party, Veronica therefore treated Rita's entrance with the utmost trepidation.

"Ah, it is you, Veronica," Rita said, her pencilled eyebrows raising with interest. Veronica stood and returned a cool nod of acknowledgement. "How lovely to see you again. My, aren't you nice and brown? I recently read in _Mod Mage _that tans were out of style, but what do they know?"

"It's easy to often find yourself outdoors when you have a life of your own," Veronica said pointedly.

Rita's eyes darkened and she took a step back, but an instant later she had resumed her mask of compassion. "But Veronica, dear, your face is all flushed, and, my dear girl, why, you are trembling! Whatever can the matter be?"

"I just met with Finch and he told me that in spite of me sleeping with him, he was still going to fail me in Potions," Veronica said dryly.

Rita's mouth thinned; this was not what she wanted to hear. "Oh, but Veronica, dear, I know why you jest," she said quickly. "The news is still too fresh, too grievous for you to

attend to. A little bug - I mean, _bird_ - told me that a relative of your dear friend Lucille Black had unfortunately passed away. Her mother, I believe?"

In spite of herself Veronica inhaled sharply and clutched the edge of the desk. A brief look of glee crossed Rita's face. "If you had known why I was upset," Veronica said, her voice quaking in her effort to maintain control, "I don't see why you should keep it to yourself until now, unless to trick me into revealing something that you did not know."

"But why would I do that?" Rita asked piteously. "You hurt me with your baseless accusations."

"_Baseless_?" If Veronica's cheeks were "flushed" before, now they were positively inferno. "How can you stand before someone who only needs to read but one of your columns and say that their accusations are _baseless_? You must think that I'm stupid to talk to me like that!"

Rita now made no effort to hide her anger. "_Really_," she began, the jowls beneath her massive chin quivering with anger, "I know you are upset about the loss of your friend's mother, but that is no excuse to take it out on me! But I forgive you, especially considering that her last days would not have been pleasant in the knowledge of her husband's liaison."

Veronica turned pale. "What did you say?"

"Oh, poor Lucille, how it must vex her!" Rita cried. Her hands were clasped to her bosom but her eyes were twinkling with mischief. "Her father, who we all thought of as being so well-bred and high in his principles, has been conducting an affair with the sister of a man in his office for the past year. My Merlin," her eyes widened and her hand clapped itself over her mouth in shock, "you didn't know, did you? Oh, how I hate to be the bearer of such awful news-"

"_Don't you lie to me_!" Veronica screamed, white and shaking with rage. "_Get out, Rita, get out_!"

"Rita, I'll thank you to mind your own business," someone said.

Veronica sank bonelessly onto a chair. William was standing by the door, glowering down at Rita. She wondered how he had came to be here, and how much he had overheard.

"But I don't ask for your thanks," Rita said sweetly, fluttering her spider-like eyelashes at him. 

William grimaced. "Well, you have it all the same," he said. "Now please leave." With one hand he held the door open while with the other he gestured for Rita to go through it in a very gentlemanly manner, but the Slytherin was not fooled into her apparent choice of leaving the room. She swallowed and ducked past William with her head lowered.

The instant William was sure that Rita was well away, he crossed the room and pulled Veronica to her feet. "Pay no attention to her," he said.

"She's-she's," tears spilled over the rims of Veronica's eyes, "awful!"

William held her as she sobbed. Soon the shoulder of his t-shirt was wet with tears. Veronica, for her part, while wounded by what Rita had said, could not fail to notice how warm and firm that shoulder felt, and how nice it was to be held by someone taller than her, tall enough to allow her to put her head upon his shoulder. And as both her sobs and her grief receded, her awareness of this and other things about William grew. Presently her tears stopped, but her head remained on his shoulder.

William gently pushed her head back and looked down at her. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and kissed him.

Initially William kept his lips still and closed. Seconds ago she had been crying her eyes out on his shoulder, and he didn't want to impose. But when it became clear that she would neither push him nor pull away, he opened his mouth and their tongues clashed together. Veronica's hand came up his back to slide underneath the loose blond curls at the nape of his neck. He could feel the wire of her bra pressing against his chest.

"Wow," Veronica beamed when they finally drew apart, "that was an interesting variance on the hugs my mother gives me. I must say I approve of your comforting methods over hers. A cup of tea only goes so far."

"Don't tease," William ordered, playfully tapping her on the tip of her nose.

Veronica gave him a mischievous look. "We should really do that again sometime," she said brightly, as if she was a houseguest who had just dropped by for the aforementioned cup of tea.

"Is there anything I can do to shut you up?" William asked, tilting his head to one side and giving her a pained look.

Veronica pulled him closer. "I have a few ideas."

In the passageway outside, a certain head boy smiled to himself, then averted his eyes and continued on his way.

****

* * * * *


	10. A Hex, a Black Eye, and a Funeral

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: The grading system used in this chapter is the one cited in _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. Therefore an "O" equals "Outstanding," an "E" equals "Exceeds Expectations" and so forth.

I also hope no one is offended by some of the words Arthur and Thierry use to describe homosexual men. They are not homophobic themselves, but have been raised in a time period where racism and sexism is still prevalent, and therefore the language reflects this even if their views don't. I tried to use the milder terms, so hopefully no one is affronted.

Disclaimer: _The Big Funny Book of Wizard Jokes_ and its contents are the intellectual property of livejournal user "melannen," who has kindly let me borrow them for my own, or rather Herbie Jordan's, amusement. I don't know who wrote the song Arthur sings, but again, it isn't mine. There's also a minor incident referred to in _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, but I'm sure all you clever people can pick up on it yourselves.

****

* * * * *

****

Chapter Ten: A Hex, a Black Eye, and a Funeral

Some days the weather was proof that Murphy existed. On the days when one was required to barricade oneself indoors, completing scriptures of barely-commenced homework and books of mostly useless nonsense in vain search for the "Aha" quote, the sun would beam brilliantly. But the mornings when she craved the feel, the baking sensation of the sun on her alabaster skin, she would be aroused by a drizzle, or a downpour if the Irishman was in an especially giving mood.

Friends could be like that too. After all, wasn't that the inspiration for the phrase "fair-weather friend"?

A week she had been in this country and only two owls had arrived. One from Molly, the second from Veronica, talking about _Quidditch_ for Merlin's sake. No "how are you coping?" No "is there anything we can do to help?" To think that she actually yearned, craved for quiet while she was at Hogwarts. The warmth, now withdrawn.

Not that she blamed them. How could she expect them to know how to help when she scarcely knew herself?

In all possible ways that last phrase could be interpreted.

In her dreams she was sometimes trapped underneath foundations of rock and stones, forced into a painful ball by the crumbled ruins around her, at least until she was rescued. There were the voices of her friends around her. Molly. Veronica. Arthur. Even Zachary sometimes. Did he consider her a friend, or had she become too much work for him now, just like she had for everyone else? She didn't blame them. No one enjoyed work. Thierry voice was never there. While they had all been in the open his would be the last she would want to hear, but funny how she missed it now, his deep foreign baritone more obvious in its absence than anyone else's would be. She would hear their murmurs of encouragement, their pleas of faith, and she would reply, her throat dry and scratched from the dust around her and lack of nourishment. They would talk until there were only three other voices left, then two, then one, then hers alone. And what was the point of talking if there was no one to hear?

There was a whishing noise and she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the next room. He had come. She plastered a smile across her face and stood to greet him.

* * * * *

Two days after a shaking sixth year had been portkeyed from the premises, Sylvian Davies was striding determinedly down the corridor towards Professor Flitwick's Charms classroom. It didn't matter to him that it was five minutes past nine, and that when he finally did show up to his first period class, a detention slip awaited. It also didn't matter that him and the good professor were from the same house, that he was aware that the remaining Gryffindors were making alliances and that it would behove him to do the same.

He was a Ravenclaw, and he was going to make the one teacher who had dared give him an "A" pay.

He could remember it as vividly at if it was yesterday. Having just completed his second year, he was playing in his front yard when an envelop dropped out of the sky and hit him on the forehead. Seeing the Hogwarts crest, he had torn the letter open eagerly. Awaiting him was his usual army of "Os" and "Es", then something that made his heart stop. In the column across from the word "Charms" was a cruelly arching "A", the plus sign next to it almost apologetic. His own house head, actively conspiring into turning him into everything that a Ravenclaw wasn't!

Over three years ago, he had vowed to make the tiny Charms professor pay. And now he had his chance.

Outside the classroom he paused for a moment, collecting himself, then raised one fist and knocked on the door. There was a chirpy, "Do come in," then the cheerfully withered and beaming face of the professor greeted him.

"Ah, Mister Davies," Flitwick squeaked, "what a coincidence."

__

Coincidence? Sylvian inwardly blanced. Did he suspect? His tiny house head was looking at him too shrewdly for comfort behind those cracked spectacles. However, Flitwick's next words put his heart at rest. Well, not quite at rest. He was still standing and breathing with blood pumping through his veins, which would have been physically impossible had his heart been completely at rest. But it had slowed down to a more comfortable pace at least.

"We are getting started on the _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm," Flitwick continued, sweeping a minute arm around the room of assumedly first years, "and I was just telling my class how you were the first in your year to master it. He was quite the opposite of Mister Barrufio, who said "s" instead of "f" and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

The first years laughed. Sylvian didn't. The professor gave him another fleeting but odd look, which was quickly replaced by his usual guileless smile. "So, Mister Davies, how may I assist you?"

"I need to talk to you," Sylvian said, trying to ignore the knot in the pit of his stomach. He was not going to feel guilty, damn it, he was not going to feel guilty. "Um, outside, please."

Flitwick raised one feathery grey eyebrow, but obliged. Sylvian wasted no time. "_Assassinium_!"

Flitwick was still raising one feathery grey eyebrow, almost politely. Sylvian tried again. When he prepared to blast the good professor a third time, Flitwick raised one finger. "If I may, I think I know the source of the problem," he said. Now it was the student's turn to raise one eyebrow. The professor prepared to continue. "I do believe that in your first meeting when your target, which I appear to be, was given out, Arthur Weasley told you that "_all the usual rules still apply_." That you are out of class when, if my memory informs me correctly, you have Astronomy with our dear friends the Hufflepuffs, would count as the breaking of one such rule." As Sylvian stood dumbstruck, Professor Flitwick suggested gently, "Perhaps you might check your own paper."

Woodenly Sylvian reached into his pocket. Sure enough, the word _Out_ was emblazoned there.

"I believe now would be the appropriate time to offer you a packet of sugar mice," Flitwick intoned with as much sympathy as the twinkling in his eyes would allow. "And if you are free in the hour before lunch and it still troubles you, I would be happy to answer any questions you may have regarding the "Acceptable" I gave you in your second year." He reached up and patted the boy on his arm in a consoling manner, then trotted back inside.

Sylvian groaned. Once again, the professor had won.

* * * * *

__

Dearest Lucille, the letter began. And that was as far as Molly got.

__

After all the talks we've had about useless things, why is that once she needs me to say something to her, I can't think of anything? she mused, twisting one red curl around her finger. _Why is what needs to be said so difficult_? And she wasn't the only one in the same predicament. "All my last letter talked about was Quidditch," Veronica had lamented to her during the lunch hour.

The death of Elodie Black was surely affecting her daughter. It was affecting them all. Even the sedate Miss Vector had cracked under the pressure. Molly had been reading her Divination text on her bed when she had arrived back from her Monday night rounds in a most flustered state. "How did it go?" she had asked her, privately wondering why she hadn't returned to her own room.

"Good," Veronica replied dully, flopping onto Lucille's old bed. Molly clicked her tongue at this, but said nothing.

"Did you give out any detentions?" Molly pressed. Veronica shook her head. To Molly's surprise, she started to cry.

"Veronica!" the other girl exclaimed.

"I just feel so terrible," Veronica wept, "because things are going so well for me and Lucille is having such a time of it. I mean, I'm a prefect. I'm top of my Arithmancy class. I'm keeper for my house Quidditch team, the first Hogwarts team _ever_ to have girls on it, and I've met a guy who seems really nice. And Lucille, well-" she broke into a fresh gale of sobs. Molly crossed the room and gave her a hug.

Eventually the story came out. Veronica had endured a confrontation with Rita Skeeter on Saturday, after which William had comforted her. They had kissed. While with him Veronica had felt comfortable, but with both having Quidditch practice on Sunday and then homework to complete, they had not encountered each other until their prefect duty tonight. After a several day absence from each other, awkwardness had reigned. At one point William had taken her hand, but sensing her unease, did not push matters.

"It's no wonder you're reacting this way," Molly told Veronica once she had stopped crying. "What with Quidditch practice, and your prefect responsibilities, and Lucille's mum dying - bless her soul - and this being your NEWT year, and now this Hufflepuff boy, it seems to me that you're taking on too much. Now being a prefect you can't avoid, and neither can we do anything about poor Elodie or Lucille, but if this boy likes you, he'll wait, and in the meantime I'll have a talk to Thierry about reducing the amount of practices."

"No, don't do that," Veronica quickly deterred her. "I'll manage. And besides, Thierrys going through as much as I am right now, yet he seems to be fine."

"People have different ways of dealing with things though, don't they?" Molly pointed out. "I mean, to us all the extra practice is adding stress, but to Thierry it may be _relieving_ it. I just don't think it can hurt to have a word to him about missing the odd practice now and then."

"You're right," Veronica gave her a shaky but genuine smile. "I'd never looked at things that way before. Thanks, Molly."

Veronica was now significantly improved, but Molly had an inkling that she still wished to be alone and thus announced that she was going to the library to finish her Arithmancy essay. Her suspicions were confirmed when her friend, who was battling it out for top spot in the class with Arthur, did not offer to help her. She collected up her quill and notebooks and walked down to the common room.

"Molly," Arthur was standing at the foot of the stairs, giving the impression that he had been waiting for her. "May I have a word?"

Molly nodded but felt apprehensive. In the madness of the past few days, Arthur's striptease and her role in it had been forgotten, but she certainly hadn't. In fact, she was now blushing at the memory. 

Arthur took her arm as she descended the last few steps and led her into a corner of the room. Flight lessons for the first years were being held that day, significantly reducing the usual noise in the area. Holly Wood and several other fourth years were clustered around one of the long tables at the end of the room, no doubt grinding out some last minute essays. "What do you get a Thestral at Fortescue's?" Herbie Jordan was reading out of a book in front of a bemused group of second years. When they continued to look bemused, he shrugged and replied, "Sundae Bloody Sundae."  


"Molly." Arthur gave her a gentle but insistent touch on her elbow. She realised she had been staring at Herbie and his friends, who to be honest presented a more interesting subject than what was in front of her, and resolved to at least look as though she was paying attention. "Headmaster Dippet called me to his office. Lucille wants me to come to France and sing at her mother's funeral."

__

That got Molly's attention. "Oh my goodness, Lucille!" she spluttered, frantically grabbing at Arthur's arm as if she was afraid he'd melt away. "Did you see her? How is she? Does she need anything?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," Arthur said. He patiently removed her shaking hands from his wrist and cradled them in his own. "No, I didn't see her - it was just Dippet in his office - but I will. I was wondering if there's anything she'd forgotten that she may need, or anything you'd like to send over for her."

  
Molly paused, mentally casting her eye over Lucille's portion of the room and trying to remember what she had left behind. Arthur waited silently. "What happens if you cross a Thestral and a house-elf?" Herbie continued. The second years gave each other blank looks. "You can set it free by giving it closure."

"What's a house elf?" one girl asked.

"Well," Herbie mused, "it's something that rich pureblood wizard families own to do their housework and it lives to clean. Kind of like Molly Morag, but a lot smaller and nowhere near as terrifying." At her name Molly perked up and swung her head in the direction of the house Seeker. He noticed her looking at him and gave her an impish grin, to which she returned a scowl. The second years giggled. Herbie was quite popular with the younger ladies, and as unpopular with the older ones for much the same reasons.  


"Did you think of anything?" Arthur asked, redirecting her attention back to him.

"Well, as long as she has those leather boots that she always wears with her, I don't think she'd notice anything else missing," Molly ran a hand over her brow. Between her professors and Thierry, she hadn't been getting a lot of sleep the last few days, and there were dark hollows under her eyes. "She did leave her record player behind, though it'd be nigh on impossible to get it over there."

"I could try," Arthur offered. His hands were still holding hers. They were sweaty but not unpleasant to the touch.

  
"How about a thestral with a unicorn?" Herbie announced to his increasingly raucous audience. "A horse that's attracted to virgin girls - on their wedding night."

"Alright, Herbie, that will do," Arthur said, crossing the room and removing the book from his hand. "Until you can prove that you keep this to yourself, I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate this. And a point from Gryffindor for the sharing of inappropriate material."

"Hey!" Herbie protested. His harem of girls giggled.

"Third years," Arthur said once he'd rejoined Molly with a shake of his head. "They get up to everything the younger students get up to, and everything the older ones do. Well, hopefully not _everything_," he added, then felt his ears grow hot. Why on earth had he added that last part?

"I'm going to the library to finish my Arithmancy essay," Molly said. "It's a madhouse here." Herbie was oblivious to the resentful look she shot him. "Would you like to join me?"

"Me?" Arthur gaped.

"Well, as you seem to be the only person I've been talking to in the last few minutes, I would say that I was asking you." Molly gave him a strange look from beneath her eyelashes. "Unless you've got something you'd rather do, that is."

"Yes," Arthur, grateful for a chance to do something, responded before he realised exactly what it was he had said "yes" to. Mortification flooded through him. "I mean, I meant that-"

"It's quite alright, Arthur," Molly gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. "I suppose I'm to see you at dinner, then?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and marched off.

"What on earth did I say that for?" Arthur wondered aloud, then trudged up the stairs towards his room. 

* * * * *

Three days after the good Professor Filius Flitwick cheated death, one of the Hufflepuffs he had earlier spoken of was approaching Professor Clarity Trelawney's abode. But if there had been a passer-by near to witness the approach of this golden-haired youth - for the rules of the game dictated that there must be none around - they would have seen the set expression on his face and taken him for a Slytherin, or an exceptionally cunning Gryffindor at the very least - rather than a member of a house that shared their colours with bumblebees.

Bumblebees were very useful creatures. They produced honey, which could be spread onto toast as a breakfast staple or mixed with hot water to soothe the throat. Muggles kept bees in little wooden boxes in their backyards. And they really were very ridiculously-coloured.

But bumblebees still stung.

He had reached the square of light below the trapdoor to Trelawney's classroom and now looked upward expectantly. A thin silver ladder descended, as if on command, and the student climbed softly up it. As he drew closer to the top his ears strained for noises, voices other than that of his intended victim. There had been no trouble figuring out her schedule. Some professors refrained from talking about themselves. Trelawney was hardly one of them. But had a student remained to discuss homework, his trip would have been a wasted one. Fortunately the only sound he heard was the professor's inane humming. Well, he would have found it "inane" if he had such critical thoughts, but he was a Hufflepuff, and he did not judge others in such a harsh manner. 

Which wasn't to say he didn't stifle a giggle as his hands found solid wooden boards and he lifted himself easily into the classroom.

The old dingbat - er, or so as the _Slytherins_ referred to her - was seated in her green purple velvet armchair that looked like a throne but in actuality smelled like mothballs. She was reading a book titled _Pisces and Sagittarius: Not Necessarily a Match Made in Hell_. Due to being her own favourite topic of conversation, he knew that she was a Pisces - and would have never dreamt of letting on - but still resolved to find out which unlucky male member of the faculty was a Sagittarian for his own private amusement if nothing else. 

Stepping forward, he loudly and deliberately cleared his throat.

Trelawney shrieked and leapt to her feet as if she had been hit in the back by a Cruciatus curse. Seeing the student, she sought to retain her composure. "Ah, Mister Zablomej," she began, pausing for dramatic impact, "you have come to kill me. I have foreseen it."

"Of course you did, Professor," William assured her. "Now if you would please move over so that you're standing in front of that pile of cushions? This spell can have unfortunate side-effects."

* * * * *

The flutter of two pairs of wings fanned cool evening air onto Thierry's face as Emmanuel and a second owl he had temporarily liberated from the school flew off into the darkening sky. Tanned, blistered fingers secured another piece of parchment to the leg of a third owl and soon that one joined the other two in flight.

Each letter contained a repetition of the same message; each intended for a Quidditch captain other than the one who stood at the bay of the owlery, watching their progress with unreadable dark eyes. He had sent notes to Alistair Bell of Ravenclaw, Amos Diggory of Hufflepuff and Jeremias Bole of Slytherin, requesting a pre-season friendly against his talented but fledging team. Since his announcement became school-wide news, the reactions had ranged from amusement to disbelief and downright disdain. It had been no accident that he had sent his own owl, Emmanuel, to Diggory. Trusting the Hufflepuff's innate sense of fairplay to override any personal objections he may have to allowing the fairer sex to participate in the rough-and-tumble game, he judged him to be the captain most like to respond in the affirmative. Whistling now, he began the long but tranquil walk back to Gryffindor Tower.

Truth be told, he was not too bothered about the contents of the letters, and even less so about the responses they may receive. It was the one unsent in his pocket that was burning away at him.

Arthur was spralled out on the bed reading. "I am surprised zat yer 'ave not jinxed ze doors," Thierry said, pulling off his cloak and flinging it onto the mountainous pile of clothes on his chair. Arthur's side of the room was similarly messy. Due to the nature of it's occupants, the seventh year boys' dorm, unlike that of their counterparts Veronica Vector and Diana McGonagall, was far from pristine. "Surely yer are afraid of ze assassins comin' ter get yer."

"Ah, but Veronica, Diana and I all have alliances," Arthur said. "And Zachary's target is Filch. He's been camped outside of the potions classroom at every spare moment hoping to catch everyone's favourite professor alone. But given the controversial nature of his teachings, Filch is quite popular in between his lessons. Students are always arriving to complain about something."

"Eet could be a covair when 'e's secretly goin' after yer," Thierry reasoned.

"That may be," Arthur told him. "But I'm not too worried about Assassins."

"An' why may zat be?" Thierry asked him.

Arthur sighed inwardly. He had deliberated for the better part of two days on how to break the news to his best friend, but an opportunity having presented itself, decided that honesty was his best policy. Rising to his feet, he prepared himself for the worst. "I'll be away for most of Saturday. I'll be in France." Thierry's face remained unreadable. "Lucille wants me to sing at her mother's funeral, you see."

"Ees zat true?" Thierry's eyes darkened. "An' why you, may I ask? Why not _moi_?"

"Because, Thierry, you _can't_ sing," Arthur said delicately.

"But why you?" Thierry pressed. "Why not Celestina Warbeck?"

"Because it would be more meaningful to have someone who actually knew Lucille's mother to sing at the funeral," Arthur said. "Besides, it won't just be me singing. Some of Lucille's French cousins will be accompanying me."

"An' you weell be accompanying Lucille lataire," Thierry said bitterly.

"Look, Thierry," Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, "Lucille asked me to sing. I'm good at it. _You're_ good at Quidditch, Apparating, Charms, Transfiguration, getting the girls and practically everything else under the sun. Allow me this one small thing. _I_ knew Lucille's mother. _I _miss her. _I_ want to sing at the funeral, and _I'm_ closer to her than _you_ are."

As soon as the words were out of Arthur's mouth, he realised it was a mistake. Thierry's eyes darkened to twin specks of coal and his fists clenched and unclenched at his side. "So," he breathed, "_exactement_ 'ow much bettaire do you know 'er?"

"Well, I've known of her since we were little, with our parents both living in Hogsmeade and all," Arthur began, "but I've only really got to her since we've been in Hogwarts together." He saw the look on Thierry's face and froze. "Oh no, I didn't mean - that is, to say, we've never-"

Thierry's fist connected soundly with the side of his face. Arthur's head snapped back and he collapsed to the floor. For a moment he was alone with his blurred, spinning vision, then a pair of hands slid under his arms and hauled him to his feet, propelling him in the direction of his bed. "Wait 'ere," Thierry's voice ordered him abruptly, then his footsteps receded out of the room and Arthur was left alone.

His head was spinning in more than one sense of the word. For years he and Thierry had been friends, and good friends, but this was his first glimpse of what the Frenchman would be like as an enemy, and he didn't like it one bit. Better-behaved and liked by his teachers, Arthur succeeded Thierry academically, but failed to master new charms or breeze through surprise quizzes with the same nonchalant ease. He was well-aware that had Thierry shown more of an inclination when it came to his studies, it would be he standing at the podium as top boy come graduation day. In terms of physical aptitude it was almost the same. Both were tall and slender boys, but while Arthur was merely puny, Thierry's frame was wiry and deceptive in the raw strength it concealed. He had once taken on - and only come off marginally worse against - a fifth year Slytherin Beater who had stomped on Arthur's glasses during their second year. The following year he had helped to carry the same boy to the hospital wing. And then there were the girls. Arthur had lost track of the amount of love interests who had paid an encouraging amount of attention to him, only to completely forget his existence when his tall, dark and _carelessly _handsome Gallic friend walked into view. Although that certainly didn't stop them from remembering him when they needed some last minute help with their History of Magic essays. His eyes welled up from the unfairness of it all.

The door creaked open and Arthur rolled over to see Thierry standing over him, a bowl and wooden spoon in hand. "I made zis up ter 'elp weeth ze swelling," he explained. His eyes widened as they took in Arthur. "Ave yer been cryin'?"

"Fuck off," Arthur retorted. Thierry shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed, easily capturing the redhead's wrists when he swung out at him. At this fresh humiliation the tears spilled over the rims of Arthur's eyes. "I said, _fuck off_."

"_Un moment_." With his free hand Thierry scooped some of the greenish glob out of the bowl and spread it over Arthur's still-red cheek. The gel tingled, but numbed and cooled the angry, burning sensation. Arthur still glared resentfully at Thierry, but stopped struggling against the hand that was clamped over his crossed wrists. When he had finished Thierry wiped his hand on the side of his school uniform pants and drew back. "Why does it have to always be about you?" Arthur blurted out.

"_Quoi_?" Thierry blinked.

"Yes, you," Arthur insisted. "You, the big brave Quidditch captain. You, the school stud. Me, the tag-along nerd loser-"

"You, ze 'ead boy," Thierry countered. "Me, zee leedle boy oo deed not know a word of Engleesh when 'e first arrived. You, ze most trusted an' respected student _dans l'ecole_. _Moi_, ze rogue oo likes _une fille qui_ does not even know 'e exists. _Non_, she does know zat I exist, she joost 'ates me, _c'est tout_."

"You, the guy who always connects his fist _right_ on the cheekbone," Arthur continued in the same vein, but was now grinning as much as Thierry's earlier punch would allow him. "This one's going to be a beauty."

Thierry gave him a regretful look. "Arthur, I am-"

"Just forget it," Arthur waved him off. "We've all had a tough week. It's not important."

Both boys sat silently for a while; Thierry had his back to Arthur. "Zat was not you talkin'," he said presently.

"No, it was Mister Lucius Malfoy," Arthur grimaced. "We had a nice little chat earlier. His words have a habit of sliding under your skin then sneaking out again when you least expect them. How about you?"

"Rita Skeeter," Thierry returned. "Zat leedle bitch. Do not pay any attention to Malfoy. If yer were truly insignificant, 'e would not bothaire weeth yer. Ees attention is proof zat yer are worth sometheeng, despite what 'e may say."

"So what did Rita have to say?" Arthur asked. "Had a nice little chat about the weather, did you?"

"More like a nice leedle chat about 'ow ze whole Quidditch thing ees ter find my way into ma teammates' pants, both ze girls an' ze boys." There was an outburst of laughter from the head boy and Thierry grinned. "Apparently I am a filthy 'omosexuelle. Zat deed not stop 'er from askin' me to ze 'Alloween ball earlier zis week though."

"It was probably your rejection that brought across the claims of homosexuality," Arthur chuckled. "She's so vain, it wouldn't ever occur to her that a man who wasn't interested in her would still be interested in other women."

"Rita's test of 'omosexuality," Thierry caught on, roaring with laughter. ""'Ello, ma boy. Are yer free for ze movies next Saturday? No? Alright ladies, 'e's definitely queer"." Arthur slapped his knee. "Een zat sense every male on ze planet would be like zat."

"If Rita was the only girl on the planet, I would be," Arthur responded. "Sometimes I think those homosexuals have the right idea."

"I knew I should 'ave nevair brought yer 'ome ter meet ma sisters," Thierry muttered.

* * * * *

Several hours before Arthur and Thierry had punched and made up, the Hufflepuff assassin, upon his descent from the place where the Divination professor had met her doom, had been greeted by a tall brunette, the prefect's badge glinting on her chest from the light that fell down from the trapdoor. "Thought I would find you here," she had teased.

"Ah, but you know me well," the recent assassin had responded, holding up both hands in a peace gesture.

"Better than most, it appears," the girl had noted, but while smiling warmly. "Was she as easy to trick as me?"

"You weren't that easy," the boy had assured her.

The girl then leaned forward, captured his tie with a quick hand. "You know, if I stare closely, I'm sure that the yellow has a greenish tinge to it. And the black appears closer to silver."

The boy had chuckled and swatted the hand away. The girl had grinned and recaptured the tie. Then they both leaned closer.

* * * * *

Saturday morning dawned with a bite that had been absent on the previous few, the promise of a cold winter. Arthur got up early, moving softly around the room as he dressed and collected his possessions. Thierry slept as though he had been hit by a Stupification jinx, but Roy Connolly, the room's final occupant, was a light sleeper. He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and slipped downstairs.

Headmaster Dippet awaited him in his office, along with his head of house Professor Dumbledore. Nothing new was to be added to the instructions he had already received, except a quick, "I'm sure you know what is appropriate in this occasions, but do try to bring some cheer into the poor girl's life," from Dumbledore. Now alone to collect his thoughts, Arthur waited for the portkey, a faded rubber sneaker, to activate.

The first thing he saw after a tug to his navel had signalled the beginning of his transportation was that he was in a small but lush drawing room. He had always known Lucille to be wealthy, but in comparison to other pureblood families - well, _rich_ pureblood families, he amended himself - the Blacks tended to downplay their wealth. Clearly the French portion of the family felt differently. The chandelier alone appeared to be worth more than the entire Weasley home.

There were footsteps outside the door and Lucille entered. Her hair was twisted back in a sophisticated roll but her cheeks appeared more sunken than usual. Most tellingly, she had neglected to put on any eyeliner. The absence of her usual warpaint made her look younger, almost childlike, and achingly vulnerable. "Did you not come by Floo powder?" she asked. "You look clean."

"Dippet couldn't figure out how to get a connection with the French Floo Network, so he and Dumbledore set up a Portkey," Arthur explained. His first instinct had been to walk across the room and give Lucille a hug, but as she made no move to approach him, he remained where he was. "How are you doing?"

"Alright," Lucille shrugged. She looked as though she wanted to say more. He knew she wouldn't. "I understand hardly anything my cousins say," she confided. "I didn't realise until I came here that Thierry deliberately talked slower for me. I must remember to thank him."

"He sends his regards," Arthur said.

"He hasn't written to me," Lucille countered. The bitterness present in her voice was the first real emotion she had shown since his arrival.

"He's very busy with Quidditch practices," Arthur said awkwardly.

"Which he organises," Lucille said. Arthur had to concede, at least inwardly, that she had a point. "And Molly and Veronica attend the same practices, yet they managed to write." She heaved an audible sigh and looked away. "Oh, you're here now. It's not important. There will be a party after the funeral, so I assume you'll want to stay the night. I had the house elves set up a spare bed for you in Antoine's room."

"If it's any trouble-" Arthur began.

"No trouble at all," Lucille cut him off.

Once again Arthur saw that look in her eyes, the look that said her emotions felt so much more than what her conversation hinted at. In comparison to the open natures of the rest of his friends, Lucille had always been distant, but her present behaviour almost required a Gringotts-worthy codebreaker. He had a sympathetic nature, but did not possess Diana or Thierry's gift for reading hidden natures. That was, he could see the locked door in front of him, but wouldn't know where to start to produce the key. "I would be happy to stay," he said.

"Thank you," Lucille said softly. "It will be nice to speak my native language for a change." Not for the last time, Arthur pondered the wisdom of her being here. "Sirius and the Potters will be here after lunch. Father will arrive later."

__

Father? Arthur blinked. Lucille had always referred to Hector Black as "Da." He would have to stretch to find some positive news to take back to Hogwarts with him. "I'm going to need some of your cousins to sing with me," he said. "Do you know enough French to write a note to them explaining what they have to do?"

"I'm fine with French as a written language," Lucille told him. There was a brief flash of defiance in her tone. The Hogwarts Lucille had briefly awoken. "I mean, it's the same alphabet as English. _You_ can read it for that matter. You just don't understand it. I don't know how well any of them can sing though."

"They don't need to be able to sing astoundingly," Arthur assured her. "Just a couple of the girls will be all I need. Most girls can sing passably well."

"Marie and Constance would be your best bets then," Lucille said. "Constance likes English boys. She thinks they're _mignon_, cute. This way." She took him by the arm as she led him out of the room. Even this contact did not feel like the normal Lucille.

* * * * *

The company bowed their collective heads as the coffin was lowered into the earth. A male relative of Elodie's stood on each corner, their wands leviating the woman's earthly body into the ground together. Lucille's father had been one designated for this task, but had broken down at the last minute and been unable to. One of Lucille's older cousins, a tall boy that Arthur suspected Sirius would resemble in a decade or so, quietly took over.

Next to Arthur Lucille choked out a strangled sob. He had wanted to be next to her, had thought it was appropriate given that she was the only one here he had close connections to, but because she was standing close to the grave, so was he, and feeling very intrusive with it. One of his hands absently ran over her hair; the other was around her waist. Lucille had soft, shiny hair. Pretty hair. It felt nice under his hand, but foreign. All he could think was that he was not the one who should be standing here with her, standing physically almost as close as lovers, but in all other aspects very distant. Someone else should be here, someone who would be doing a much better job of this whole comforting and closeness thing.

Unbidden, Thierry's face slipped into his mind.

The coffin now nestled in the grave and magically bidden earth flew over it. Across the piling dirt Arthur saw Sirius. Jerome Potter's hand was upon his shoulder; tears were streaming down his face. He, Lucille and their father all seem equal in their grief, yet strangely divided by it. There was something beneath the surface that was wrong here, so very wrong. So caught in his musings was he, he didn't realise it was time for his contribution until Lucille gave him a push in the small of his back.

Marie and Constance, both pretty girls with glossy, raven locks, reached the head of the grave before he. They were standing slightly apart, he was to go in between them as the centrepiece. Arthur's stomach lurched; he was not good with crowds. But then he saw his friend Lucille facing him. Pale, needing comfort. "I've never met any of Lucille's French relatives before," he began, "though I regret that it couldn't have been on a happier occasion. What we will sing is a tradition song called "Babylon." I picked it especially because of the last line, _We remember thee Zion_. Because if something or someone is remembered by you, it has never truly left you." This was the only part of the carefully prepared speech that had remained in his mind. It would have to do. 

The same cousin who had helped lower Elodie into the ground step forward and quickly rapped out something in French. Arthur caught the line he had just recited and realised he was translating for him, when up until now he had made no inclination that he knew Arthur's language. _What a strange family_, he thought, but refrained from making the same mistake as some of his countrymen and extending that prejudice to all French people through his familiarity with Thierry and his open-minded nature. He cleared his throat and began to sing:

By the waters, the waters of Babylon

We lay down and wept, and wept, for thee Zion

We remember, we remember, we remember thee Zion

When Arthur sang, he forgot what he was doing, forgot any tests or detentions he had earned, and was conscious of nothing else but the efforts of his voice to carry the melody. In this way he forgot that these people, and even the woman in the grave, were comparative strangers to him and felt that they were offering the same opportunity to him. They all felt bonded in the moment, the song. The second time he sang the verse, Constance, as instructed, started to sing the beginning of the song while he was on the second line, her clear contralto contrasting yet merging with his strong tenor. They both sang their different lines once through, then Marie started while he was on _We remember thee Zion_. Perhaps Arthur was familiar with Muggle appliances to the point where he could describe this effect as being like a washing machine spinning different clothes and fabrics together, only much more harmonious. And for the first time, Lucille was smiling through her tears.

So it was that Arthur left for Hogwarts late the following Sunday with the feeling that everything would be alright.

****

* * * * *


	11. What Thierry did in Divination

****

With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: As you may have been reading about in my bio notes, I have been cleaning up the previous ten chapters and have made some minor changes. I will briefly list them here to save you from re-reading the entire fic. Without further ado, here they are:

1. Minerva McGonagall is now Diana McGonagall, the head girl. Minerva the Hogwarts teacher is her aunt and teaches Arithmancy at Hogwarts. I did this because I now believe how I had things originally is an unnecessary canon change.

2. Quentin Snape is now Blair Zabini. I did this because I decided it was unrealistic to have Sirius, Remus and Severus all with siblings ten years older than they are, which is a huge and unusual age gap.

3. Headmaster Kyte is no more. I have made Armando Dippet the headmaster. This is, again, another change to make things more canon.

4. After re-reading OotP I decided Kingsley Shacklebolt is really quite young, so I have invented Winston Shacklebolt and made him a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team instead.

And thanks to Catherine for giving me a much-needed kick up the arse where this is concerned.

Disclaimer: I own Thierry Delacour. That is quite enough.

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven: What Thierry did in Divination

Veronica couldn't sleep, but it wasn't a bad lack of sleep. That was one of the best things about a new relationship. She could go to bed at two and then jump up four hours later, completely refreshed and ready to face the day. This morning she decided to face this particular day by doing a quick spin around the Quidditch pitch. Slipping into her uniform then pulling her thick dark hair into a ponytail, she went downstairs.

She wasn't the only early riser. Thierry was seated alone at one of the long tables. He was still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, the clothes that he slept in, with his school robe thrown hastily on top of the ensemble and his head resting on a textbook. At first glance he looked asleep, but when Veronica walked around the table, she saw that his eyes were indeed open, but staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. "What time did you get up?" she asked.

"I 'ave been down 'ere _tout la nuit_," Thierry responded dully. She could see little pepper marks of stubble on his chin and what looked suspiciously like a spot of drool blurring the writing on his text page. "Bastard Divination assignment. Bastard Professeur Trelawney."

"Thierry, being not only French but part-Veela, you don't give many opportunities for me to say things like this, so I'm going to take the chance now," Veronica began. Thierry raised his head and looked at her quizzically. "You truly look like shit," she told him.

Thierry scowled as she began to giggle. "You weell notice zat I nevair tell you zat you look like shit," he said. "Zat ees because you give me _many_ opportunities to say zat." Veronica continued to giggle. She knew that Thierry didn't really think she ugly. They just had the kind of friendship where they could insult each other and know it meant nothing. "Yer 'Ufflepuff, 'e weell not agree weeth _moi_, _mais_ I 'ave always said ze 'Ufflepuffs _sont imbeciles_."

"He's not stupid," Veronica said. "He's actually pretty smart. He got two Outstandings and three Exceeds Expectations last year on his OWLs last year."

"Weell, ze 'Ufflepuffs exceed expectations joost by passin' zeir classes," Thierry grinned. Veronica glared at him. "Okay, 'e seems like a nice boy. 'E killed Trelawney, so zat eez enough to endaire 'im to me."

"He only killed Trelawney in a game," Veronica pointed out. "She's still alive, you know."

"Drat," Thierry said.

Veronica pulled up a chair next to Thierry's elbow. He yawned and ran a hand through his hair. "You want help with that?" she asked.

"Trelawney wants 'elp, not _moi_," Thierry said darkly. Veronica fought back a smile.

"You know, she isn't particularly fond of you," she said. "You might get a higher mark if you predicted that something nasty would happen to you."

"'Ow about eef I said I would lose ze Quidditch Cup to Slytherin an' keeled myself ze next day?" Thierry suggested.

"I don't think suicide really counts as a prediction because it's something that you can plan," Veronica said. "A prediction is more something you can't have any control over, such as it raining tomorrow morning."

"Zat 'as nevair stopped 'er," Thierry muttered. "Yer should 'ear 'er een class. "Oh, I do declare! I have foreseen that I will be drinking out of a green teacup today, and here I am, very much drinking out a green teacup," an', "Ooh, I put on pink underwear today, just as I predicted." Oose choice was eet ter wear pink underwear? Ze _grande_ fraud."

"As much as I think I would hate Divination," Veronica mused, "I almost wish I had taken it instead of Arithmancy, just to see the two of you sniping at each other. But then my average might suffer since it _is_ my best subject and I can't see myself putting in the effort-" ("_pah_," said Thierry) "-required to do well in Divination. Well, if you can't do anything more to your homework, you're welcome to join me outside. I can charm the Quaffle to fly at the hoops, but it's a bit less predictable if someone else can actually throw it at me."

"_Peut-etre_ some odaire time," Thierry told her. A malevolent grin stretched across his face and he began to scratch frantically on a piece of parchment. "I 'ave an idea _pour mes devoirs_. Zis weell make ze old bat's 'air curl."

"Perhaps it might be wise if I don't inquire further," Veronica said. "I am a prefect after all." She picked up her broom and strode towards the common room exit.

* * * * *

"What is that thing?" Molly demanded. "How come I didn't get anything from home?"

"Because I wrote and asked for it, stupid," Rhiannon said, eagerly pealing open the large parcel. "It's my costume for the Halloween Ball. You can never plan too far in advance for these things."

"And does Mum know that the ball is open to only fifth years and above, and the only way a younger student can get there is to be invited by someone-" Molly's mouth creased in disapproval "-_older_?"

"No, she doesn't." Rhiannon now had an expression on her face similar to her sister's. "And it had better stay that way."

"Or else what?" Molly demanded. "What are you going to do, pipsqueak, drag me behind Hagrid's hut and break my kneecaps?"

"No," Rhiannon said stoutly, "but I'll tell Mum that you like a _boy_!"

"At her age I don't think your mother will really be too surprised," Zachary said gently to Rhiannon, then turned his head and grinned at the red-faced Molly. "But the rest of us will be very interested in hearing more about this."

"You do that," Molly hissed, "and I'll tell Herbie Jordan that you _stuff your bra_!"

Now it was Rhiannon's turn to blush.

Owl postage had arrived as usual over breakfast. Thierry was the most popular. He had received three owls, including a letter from his own, Emmanuel, and retreated back behind his soup bowl-sized mug of black coffee, his brown eyes sliding across the pages as Emmanuel pecked at his croissant.

"What are you wearing to the ball?" Zachary asked Molly, quickly seeking to diffuse a sibling confrontation.

"I have no idea," Molly admitted. While her family wasn't in dire financial straits, they couldn't exactly afford to blow money on every whim and fancy of their five daughters. "I was thinking of making something myself, and it will have be something I can wear again. There's no point in spending all that money on fabric for something I can only wear once." _But it would be fun_, a little voice told her.

"Why don't you go as a princess?" Holly Wood suggested. "That way you can charm the dress a different colour and wear it to another ball. They're bound to have one more before you graduate."

"No, but a princess isn't scary," Florean Fortescue, a friend of Herbie's, persisted. Molly smiled at the very different train of thought of a young boy. "I know! You could go as a hag. That way all you need to do is wear dark clothing and wrap a bunch of rags around your head. It won't cost anything at all."

"My word." Molly turned to the second year in surprise. "What an astute young businessman you are. You could run your own shop with a mind like that."

Florean grinned. "Well, I did think about opening my own ice cream store," he said bashfully. "That would be the _coolest_-"

"Both literally and figuratively speaking," Zachary said, catching Molly's eye.

"And Molly wouldn't need much of a costume to go as a hag," Herbie quipped, causing Rhiannon to shriek with laughter. Zachary quickly grabbed Molly's pumpkin juice before she could fling it at him.

Arthur was looking at Emmanuel thoughtfully. "Have you ever wondered what happens to the owls when it's not breakfast?" he asked.

Holly looked at him as if he was daft. "They stay in the owlery," she said. "Everyone knows that."

"No, what I mean is," Arthur persisted, "what happens to them in between arriving at Hogwarts with their messages and delivering them to us at breakfast time? I mean, I'm sure that everyone who has ever corresponded with a Hogwarts student hasn't timed the release of their owl just so it arrives right at breakfast." Everyone else stared dumbfounded at him. "Well, _I_ thought it was a valid question," he said, sounding slightly touchy.

"Arthur, it's a _great_ question," Zachary Lupin hastened to reassure him. "I'm just amazed that you're the first to ask it." 

"I've thought about that before," Cameron Bell, the reserve Keeper, admitted, "but I think that's because my mum's a Muggle. Coming from a pureblood background, it's easier to take things like that for granted, I guess."

"_Arthurs_ a pureblood wizard," Molly pointed out sharply.

"Arthur has always been particularly good at - how do the Muggles say it - _thinking beyond the square_," Diana defended her male counterpart. "How you did not get into Ravenclaw is beyond me."

"Well," Arthur began. The tips of his ears were pink and he was starting to stammer slightly. Thierry was grinning a broad _I told you so_ at him, not doubt remembering last week's heated conversation. "The hat did consider placing me there, but it said I was too much of a nonconformist and, well, here I am."

"Ze 'at considaired puttin' me zere too," Thierry added, "but eet said I lacked certain qualities."

"Like what?" Veronica said.

"Like ze ability to get ma assignments completed on time," Thierry grinned. 

The rest of the group laughed, but Diana, predictably, gave him a disdainful look. "I too was almost placed in Ravenclaw," she said, "but the hat put him in Gryffindor for reasons quite contrasting Thierry's. It said it was worrying about me studying _too_ much and that I needed to-" her nostrils thinned in indignation "-_live it up_ more." Thierry snorted into his coffee.

"I was almost put into another house," Veronica admitted, "but that was Hufflepuff, not Ravenclaw."

"So that's where it comes from," Molly teased her. Veronica blushed.

"Who're your letters from?" Herbie demanded.

"Herbie, don't be impolite," Molly scolded him. "That's Thierry's business, not yours."

"Eet ees alright," Thierry waved her indignation away idly. "_Actualement_, eet is vair much ees business. Yer may remembaire 'ow I was goin' to write to ze odaire Quidditch captains requestin' a friendly. Well, zey 'ave responded." He scanned the contents of the now-opened envelops. "Ze Ravenclaw _garcon_, Alistair Bell, 'e said "_non_," _mais _zat ees to be expected. Ze Ravenclaws, _ils sont tres conservatifs_. Ze odaire two, Amos Diggory et Jeremias Bole, zey said "_oui_"."

"What does pee have to do with a Quidditch match?" Herbie frowned.

"_Oui_ means "yes" in French, you big dolt," Molly told him. Herbie rolled his eyes at her back. Once again Arthur noticed the absence of Lucille, who would have translated Thierry's rambling in an instant.

"Thierry, you do realise why the Slytherins would agree to play us," Veronica said worriedly. "I mean, given that this is the first year we've had girls on the team." Holly Wood and Rhiannon Morag looked at each other anxiously.

"Veronica, I am a man." Thierry gave Veronica an ironic smile. "I know 'ow zeir minds work. _Non_, we weell be playin' 'Ufflepuff. Zey weell give us a good game, _mais _zey play fair."

Holly and Rhiannon cheered. Veronica's stomach did a strange loop. The Hufflepuff friendly meant that she would be playing against William, even more so now that she had found out he was a Chaser, not a Beater as she had first suspected. She had always felt competitive against her older brother, but this was worse than a brother. Never until this moment had she fully appreciated what house rivalry meant. She had never slacked off during practices, but now she resolved to work harder still.

* * * * *

It was a Monday afternoon and, as usual, Arthur was flustered. Despite their earlier reserve – if not animosity - the French contingent of Lucille's family had warmed to him after he had sang, and he had found himself enjoying the party more than he had expected. And much more than he had ought to. He raised a hand to his forehead, wincing as he rubbed it regretfully. When he arrived back yesterday evening, he had planned on asking Thierry for a hangover remedy, but the wily Frenchman was nowhere to be found. Somehow he didn't think Professor Dumbledore would be so forthcoming with one this time. It was with no small amount of relief that he greeted his final class of the day – Divination.

Unsurprisingly, since he had climbed up the ladder early, only one other student was there. Very surprisingly, the student was Monsieur Thierry Delacour. Thierry, who did not bother to hide his disdain for the class, was more often than not late and unlike Arthur, who used Divination as an easy pass to bolster his transcript, seemed to do minimal work on his assignments. 

Which was why it was all the more surprising to see him with his head bent over a scroll, lips moving and quill scratching frantically in concentration.

"What are you writing?" Arthur asked, moving closer to Thierry and leaning over his shoulder.

Thierry smirked and moved his hand away. Behind his glasses Arthur's eyes widened. "Oh no, Thierry," he said. "You can't possibly hand that in to her. You'll get detention, or worse, expelled."

"Pah," Thierry was dismissive. "Veronica said Trelawney would like eet eef I wrote zat something bad ees goin' ter 'appen ter _moi_, an' so I wrote zat something bad ees goin' ter 'appen to _moi_. Zis ees zee wors' theeng I can possibly teenk of."

"Oh, I don't agree," Arthur said stoutly. "Expulsion two weeks into your NEWT year will be much worse than that."

Thierry turned and gave Arthur a pitying look. "Arthur," he began, "_notheeng_ ees wors' zan zis. Eef yer don' teenk so, yer really need to leeve a leetle."

"You're hopeless," Arthur muttered. He sighed and returned to his seat, pulling out his own prediction chart.

As the minutes until the start of class trickled away, more students entered the room. First two Slytherin students, whispering among themselves, came in and took the cushions in the corner of the room. Next came a Ravenclaw girl whose name Arthur still didn't know. She sneaked a sidelong look at Thierry then with studied casualness, claimed the table behind him. All the while the objection of her attention whipped his quill along the surface of his parchment, oblivious to all around him. Finally the jangle of bracelets signalled the approach of Professor Clarity Trelawney.

"Good afternoon class," she shrilled as she swept through the room. "I hope everyone had an enjoyable weekend, except for the poor unfortunate Frank Longbottom, of whom I foresaw a broken ankle and a concussion in the tea leaves." Thierry snorted, but didn't raise his head from his work. Trelawney's eye, uncharacteristically sharp when it came to Thierry, fell upon him. "Mister Delacour, I do not recall allowing homework to be completed during class hours."

"Ah, but a sudden premonition 'as come upon _moi_," Thierry enthused. Arthur hid his grin behind his hand. "An' besides, deadlines an' schedules are implements of zee mundane an' 'ave no bearings upon zose weeth zee gift. The innaire eye cannot see upon command."

There were a few scattered giggles from the rest of the class, including the girl behind Thierry. "I had predicted that the less worthy in this class would find means to delay their homework," Trelawney said, facing Thierry but with her voice deliberately loud to catch the attention of the rest of the class. "Put down your quill this instant, Mister Delacour. I forsee a detention in your future."

"Zat ees _un miracle_," Thierry breathed, wide-eyed, "_especialement_ since yer give out ze detentions." There were some nervous giggles from the back of the room. Thierry had been covertly scathing of Trelawney's psychic ability before, but never this openly and this rudely. Arthur shook his head worriedly.

Trelawney gave Thierry look through her rose-tinted spectacles, who smiled blithely back at her and put his quill down on his tabletop. "Today we will continue our study of tea leaves," the professor continued, her voice higher than usual. "Miss Fleet and Mister Appleby, if you would please hand out the teacups and tealeaves? And do take care to distribute the pink cups, not the lavender. I have a strong premonition that the lavender would be prone to breakage today, and I am rather fond of them."

The two Hufflepuffs dexterously went around the room as Trelawney droned on, distributing cups and leaves. "Professor," a blond Ravenclaw said, inclining one hand, "I was reading through my notes last night and I came upon something that may interest you."

"Yes, dear?" Trelawney purred, positively flushing. Imelda Page was a member of the "Divination Groupies," or so Thierry had derogatorily christened the trio of girls who worshipped the clouds the Divination teacher had her head in. Arthur didn't think much of them either. Funny how supposedly smart people could lack so little common sense.

"Well, Professor," Imelda continued, drawing herself up prissily, "on the first day of term I documented you saying that an unfortunate death would befall a member of our class. No one has died yet, but I was thinking, and I came to the realisation that when you say a death will _befall_ someone, it doesn't necessary mean that it will _happen_ to them, just that they'll be affected by it." She paused expectantly.

"Yes, dear?" Trelawney encouraged.

"Well, Professor," the girl's voice rose with encouragement, "isn't Lucille Black one of your students?"

Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat. Surely not. Surely even she wouldn't have such little respect towards her own students-

"Why, yes, dear." Professor Trelawney was trying to look sorrowful, but her eyes were gleaming with pride. "I did predict that such a sorrow would befall one of my students. Unfortunately, it is not the role of a Seer to meddle with such gifts-"

There was a crash as Thierry casually jabbed his cup with his elbow and sent it crashing to the floor. "Well, Professeur," he said coldly, "you predicted, I believe, zat ze lavendaire cups would be more prone ter breakage, yet zis ees a pink one. What do yer say about zat?"

"I, er, well," Trelawney warbled, taking a step back.

Thierry suddenly pushed back his chair and loomed over her. "Yer deed not predict ze death of Lucille's modaire," he snarled. "Yer deed not predict zat ze lavendaire cups would be ze ones broken. Well, maybe yer deed, but I undeed yer prediction by breaking one consciously. Predictions are only predictions an' are not facts unless zey come true. Anytheeng can be undone, anytheeng." He took a step towards her, then another. Trelawney backed away until she was against her desk. "Do not _evaire_ profit from ze death and misery of odaires. 'Ave some respect for ze dead."

"So you admit to destroying school property deliberately then?" Trelawney's face was white and her voice was trembling. "I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in my class. Detention, Mister Delacour."

"Yer cannot give _moi_ detention eef I am no longaire a member of yer class," Thierry snapped. He stomped back to his desk and slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'm goin'. An' I'm not comin' back. Zis class is _merde_." He swung one last scowl in Trelawney's direction then crawled down the ladder. 

As it was slow going descending the ladder, abrupt departure from Trelawney's classroom was hard to manage, yet somehow Thierry pulled it off. The rest of the class was left gazing silently, fearfully at each other. "Well, then," Trelawney squeaked, "since it appears that neither of my teacups are safe for usage, I now propose that you record the predictions of your classmates and see how many of them are correct." 

__

Not "_happened_," Arthur thought bitterly to himself as he reached for his quill, "_correct_." It would never occur to her that the study of Divination itself could be faulty. Trelawney randomly flicked through the assignments that a student had earlier collected, reading aloud from each. "_I predict that I will get an "O" on this assignment_ – we shall see, Norrington – _I predict that next Tuesday, I will ask Heather Stratton to the Halloween Ball_." The rest of the class tittered, and the redhaired girl in question blushed. "_I predict that Mark Appleby will ask me to the Halloween Ball, and that I will say yes_." Heather looked across the room at Mark and nodded, still blushing furiously. The class broke into applause.

"Well now, well, that's two predictions correct already," Trelawney murmured absently. Arthur smiled. Fortunately the majority of the seventh years did not take Divination as seriously as Imelda Page and her coven, as the class would be a very dull place indeed. "Ah, this looks to be an interesting one: _I predict that next week, I will become omnipotent_." The class exchanged bemused looks. A few giggled.

The Ravenclaw girl, who was sitting behind where Thierry had once sat, was doing something very interesting. After Trelawney had read out the prediction about becoming omnipotent, she had quietly raised her hand in the air, and had kept it raised despite Trelawney's failure to recognise her. If anything, this failure seemed to make her more determined. When it became apparent that the girl would not take her hand down, she snapped, "Well, yes, dear, but I thought that my instructions were quite clear."

"I understand your instructions perfectly," the girl said. Her voice was soft but firm. The rest of the class was watching her with interest, and Arthur realised that he had never heard her talk before. "But I think you read out one of the predictions wrong."

"I assure you that is not that case," Trelawney said flippantly. "I may be rather advanced in years, but the inner eye only improves, not deteriorates, with age."

"But I'm not talking about your inner eye, Professor." The girl was obviously uncomfortable by the attention that she was unused to, but determined to continue. "I was sitting behind Thierry Delacour when he made that prediction, and that is not what I read. If you want us to check the validity of these predictions, we should really make sure that what we write down is accurate."

"Girl, it may very well be that _you_ are mistaken." This time Trelawney did not bother to hide the impatience in her voice. "It could be possible that since Mister Delacour is not a mother tongue speaker, that he misspelt the word, and that what he wrote down may not be what he actually intended."

"The French and English languages share the same alphabet," the girl persisted obstinately, "and Thierry has always been a good speller, and his written work is articulate, therefore I am certain he knows what he is talking about. He did not say _omnipotent_, Professor, he said _impotent_."

It was a good ten minutes before Trelawney could restore the class to order. Below the trapdoor a certain Frenchman snickered, then made a mental note to find out the identity of the girl who called out, "Wands on being the one to help test his prediction!"

* * * * *

The two weeks leading up to the Hufflepuff friendly flew by faster than anyone would have wanted them to, particularly in the Gryffindor camp. They had been a blur of early morning Quidditch practices followed by later nights scurrying through books and homework. Judging by how tired William had been lately, the Hufflepuffs had been practicing a lot too, but whenever Veronica tried to uncover details he only tapped her on the nose and made a joke about "fraternising with the enemy." Yet in spite of the long hours committed, she still felt that they had not had enough time playing together, enough of an understanding among each other to do themselves justice. Thierry still had to yell at Molly to pull her arm back far enough to get the necessary power on the long shots she made with her bat.

She awoke to a sunlit morning on match day. She had half-hoped it would be wet and rainy so that less people would show up to watch them, but following its trend with giving her sodden days when she had planned an outing to the beach, the weather had betrayed her. Sighing, she heaved herself out of bed and began to pull on her uniform.

No one could each much at breakfast that morning. The usually jovial Herbie listlessly poked his eggs around his plate and there were more than a few red eyes down their end of the table. The Hufflepuffs in contrast looked as though the Halloween Ball had come a month early, playfully shoving each other and shouting jokes down the length of their table.

"Sort of makes you wish Lucille was here, don't it?" Molly muttered next to her, staring down at a half-eaten piece of toast on her plate. "She'd tell us that we're just as good as they are, and that women have a better sense of equilibrium anyway because we have a lower sense of gravity."

"We're not worse than they are because we're women," Veronica mumbled. "We're worse because we just are, that's all."

"Now Veronica Verity Vector, I won't here any of that talk," Molly said, but even her lectures lacked their usual force. "We're playing to win, and that's that." In front of Veronica the milk in her tea had grown a skin.

Half an hour later they were in the changing room in front of a subdued Thierry. "Now, everyone," he began, "I 'ave been watchin' yer train since ze start of ze term an' I want yer to know zat despite what 'appens today, yer 'ave come a long way an' yer should be proud."

"He thinks we're going to lose," Herbie surmised next to Veronica. She couldn't think of much to say to disagree.

The roar of the crowd was overpowering as they flew out into the stadium. She could see large pockets of scarlet and yellow among them, but not just the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had turned out. She could guess whom the neutral houses – and even some members of her own – would be supporting. _Why couldn't I have been the type of girl to wear aprons and bake cookies_? she wondered dismally. Anything was better than this potential humiliation.

Below her Madame Hooch strode out onto the pitch, the box containing the four different balls under her arm. She gave her customary speech requesting a nice, clean game from all of them and then under her supervision, Thierry and Amos Diggory shook hands. Amos smiled at Thierry as he did so, then his eyes drifted over to share the same smile with Molly as she hovered on the left of the pitch. Even from this distance she could see Molly was bright red. She shook her head. The last thing they needed was a Beater with a crush on the opposition's best Chaser.

The game started out well with Thierry stretching out an arm to snatch the Quaffle from Chaser Rickett and going on a mazy run that eluded the opposing players, but was tipped off-balance by a Bludger that Molly should have reached easily and his gripped loosened sufficiently to allow William to snatch the Quaffle out of his hands. Then Belmaine thumbled an easy throw that Thierry had managed to intercept. Then Molly hit a Bludger aimed to spin the Hufflepuff Keeper off-course but only succeeded in preventing Holly from scoring the first goal of the match. Then Winston conceded a stupid penalty and the floor was hers. Finally, a chance to put things to right instead of helplessly watching others make mistakes. Amos hovered before her, then tossed the Quaffle to William and zoomed to the left. Her boyfriend would be taking the penalty.

Veronica swallowed nervously. She had saved penalties before, but that was against teammates she had practiced against for almost a month, people whose style and play she knew like the grip of her wand. But William, particularly with their relative lack of experience, was an enigma to her. He had given her leeway in other areas of their lives. They weren't a couple who could be accused of taking each other for granted. But as she had realised during her short-lived Assassins participation, his game play allowed no room for compromise.

He dummied the ball, causing her to dive to her left. Too late she saw that the Quaffle had not completely left his hand, and then he instead slammed it home to her right, with her hopelessly off-course and deeply embarrassed. William was beaming as much as the teammates who surrounded him for a congratulatory hug, but gave her a brief apologetic smile before returning to his position. Veronica felt too numb to react.

"Bettaire luck next time," Thierry said, clapping her on the shoulder.

But she did not have better luck the next time, nor the time after that. The goals were going in one end but not the other. Thierry had put away two penalties near the start of the game, but when it became apparent that Veronica was nearly incapable of keeping them out, succumbed to pressure and missed two sitters. She became convinced that the only reason why Thierry had not subbed her was because he knew what a further blow to her confidence it would be. It reached the point when Herbie Jordan could not win the game for them, merely do damage control, and she was very relieved that Hufflepuff had only won by ten points when he finally caught the Snitch.

There was very little animosity between the two houses, and the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs mingled together on the pitch after the match. Instead of handshakes Veronica received hugs from the players in yellow, which were well-intended but served only to reinforce her perception that she had not only been the worst player on the pitch, but had caused her team to lose. William was the last to reach her. "I was terrible," she muttered into his shoulder.

"You weren't that bad," he said. "You were hopelessly exposed for a lot of the open-play goals, and towards the end of it you were starting to get a hand to the penalties, which shows that not only were you improving and learning to read play better, but that you never gave up. That takes a lot of strength. You can definitely improve. Merlin, my first Quidditch match I was out cold in two minutes!"

Veronica frowned; he had never told her that. "What happened?" she asked. "Did someone hit a Bludger at you?"

"No, I knocked myself out with my own bat," William told her. "You can't fool me, Veronica, I know that wasn't really a cough! See, you may laugh but if I can now put four penalties past you in a game, you can learn to keep just as many of them out."

Veronica stopped smiling. "It was only three," she said. "I should know. I had to pick every single one of them off the ground." She went silent and looked away.

William cupped her chin and gently pushed her head up to face him. "Perhaps it was just three," he said. "Due to conflicts of interest I can't really tell you what areas of your game you need to improve, but a lot of it is in your head and if it's mental, it can always be fixed. Good night, Miss Vector." He gave her a kiss on the lips and walked away.

Scattered cheers and applause broke out from the Hufflepuff players and supporters still around her. She realised she was grinning. That was the first time William had ever kissed her in public. He had stopped at the sound of clapping and was now pink-cheeked. Her natural good humour restored, she swooped into a mocking bow for the benefit of those who had witnessed the kiss then caught up to Thierry, schooling her face into a more sombre expression as she did so.

Thankfully (although not in the case of the rest of the team), Thierry repeated what William had said and berated the Beaters for not protecting her and going too far forward to support the Chasers. Molly's lower lip was trembling by the time he finished. He then told Herbie off for not being decisive enough with his play - citing an incident where he could have grabbed the Snitch when it was hovering above Belmaine's head and Gryffindor was only forty points behind - and Holly for being too selfish with hers. 

"I am goin' ter switch yer positions," he snapped. "There ees nothin' else ter do weeth a Chaser oo nevair wants ter pass ze Quaffle. At least as a Seekaire, yer meant to think _seulement_ of yerself, which weell be vair easy for you, 'Olly!" The new Seeker burst into tears. Thierry looked as though he was unsure whether to be angry with Holly or himself, then muttered a curse and put his arm around her.

After Holly's hysterics Thierry toned his talk down a notch, and the rest of them left looking disappointed, but not distraught. The two now alone, Thierry gave Veronica a wry, rueful smile. "It was a good move switching Herbie and Holly," she acknowledged. "For all his boastfulness Herbie is a team player - he'll be great supporting the other Chasers - and we need someone single-minded to be a Seeker. Herbie was paying too much attention to everything else that was going on. Holly would have got the Snitch that time it was near Belmaine. She wouldn't have cared if she poked his eye out."

Thierry laughed. "_Oui_, zat an' she's a bettaire flier. I am sorry _les autres_ deed not cover yer _aujourd'hui_. I would 'ave prefered eef we 'ad played against Ravenclaw today, but ze captaine said _les filles_ did not belong on the field, an' what can yer do zen?"

"So Alistair Bell was the captain who said "no" to you?" Veronica said. Thierry nodded. "Well, I'm surprised by that," she continued. "I thought he would be a bit less conservative considering that he and Lucille were a couple once."

There was a thud as the Quaffle slipped from Thierry's fingers. "_Quoi_?"

"At the start of our sixth year, remember?" Veronica continued, blithely unaware of the purple shade Thierry's face had turned as she bent down to retrieve the Quaffle. "They went out for two months." She made to pass Thierry the ball, then saw the expression on his face. "I thought you knew this already."

"Oh, _non_." Thierry's face had darkened further. "She does not see fit to tell _moi_ of such theengs."

"Yeah, I can't remember why they broke up," Veronica watching Thierry's face carefully as she spoke. "What's up with you?"

"No," Thierry shook his head and gave a disbelieving laugh. "Lucille would not 'ave a boyfriend. She's small an' pushy an' far too loud."

"She's also very beautiful," Veronica challenged him. "And she's funny, and intelligent, and kind. You know, just because you're not aware of all those things, it doesn't mean that no other guys are."

"Fonny?" Thierry repeated. "Fonny _dans la tete_, zat ees. An' she's miserable _tout le temps_-"

"She's not always miserable," Veronica defended her friend sharply. "And you haven't exactly made her time here easier for her, you know-"

"She insults _moi_, I insult 'er," Thierry protested. "Eet is all 'er doin'."

"You honestly don't have a clue, do you." It was a statement, not a question. Veronica's face was turning a shade to rival Thierry's. "You're so blind you can't see what's right in front of you!" She threw the Quaffle angrily back at him and marched from the room.

Thierry hurled the Quaffle against the wall, catching it just before the force of his throw rebounded it back in his face. He took a deep breath and threw the ball again in a more stable manner._ What does Veronica care_? he demanded to himself as the ball thudded against the wall. _What does she know about, anyway_? The answer came back to him, unbidden. _Everything_.

There was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs outside. Thierry caught the Quaffle and spun around, unsure if he would face a furious or repentant Veronica and trying to quickly brace himself for both. But it was not Veronica who flung open the doorway, but her Hufflepuff boyfriend. "Arthur sent me to tell you," he puffed, pushing damp blond curls off his forehead. "I caught him in the hall - Lucille's back."

****

* * * * *

I have decided not to respond individually to reviews anymore because it takes up too much space (over three thousand words before I edited the last ten chapters). But I have really appreciated all of them and if you ever have any questions, email me and I'll be happy to respond. Sorry for the wait and **Merry Christmas!**


	12. The Homecoming

**With a Little Help from My Friends Lucy Lupin**

Author's Note: Well, I typically needed a big assignment to procrastinate for to really kick this one into gear. It's certainly been a while. I was out of the loop living in Rome for a little under a year, and not having a computer or steady internet connection, got out of the swing of things - big time. At this point I should probably write something like, "I hope it's worth the wait," but as I'm struggling to remember how to write in English, it's probably not. Anyway, thank you for staying with me.

Dedication: To Heather for all her bright ideas, Alison and Catherine for their encouragement, and pretty much anyone who's still reading this.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Particularly decent syntax.

**Chapter Twelve: The Homecoming**

**A**s William's Quidditch skills attested to, he was almost as quick physically as he was mentally, but Thierry streaked through the halls like a comet. "Wait!" the Hufflepuff Chaser called after him. "You don't even know where she is!"

That made sense to Thierry, so he stopped long enough to allow Veronica's blonder half to redirect him to Dippet's office, then sped up again. It wasn't until he had halted gasping for breath outside the headmaster's door that he realised he didn't know the password, and had to wait an eternal thirty seconds for Will to arrive and supply it to him.

The first person on the other side of the wall was Headmaster Dippet. "Ah, Monsieur Delacour," the headmaster greeted him, gazing up at him thoughtfully from over the rims of his glasses. "I would invite you in, but since of course you are already in, make yourself at home. Miss Black awaits you at the top of the stairs."

Thierry looked nonplussed at the foyer in front of them. There were no stairs to be found. But Will, who as a prefect may had been to the principal's office before (although Thierry was given to mischief, he had been an intelligent boy and knew when to stop before his behaviour got him into trouble to that extent), stepped forward and stood on in an intricate circular pattern carved in the stone. The stones beneath him began to rise and he was slowly spiralled upwards towards the light that beamed down from the ceiling.

The headmaster's office was not unlike an astronomy tower, with a high domed ceiling and large windows. Miscellaneous objects that even he with magic from two different species in his veins could not guess the purpose of cluttered the shelves circling the room. Arthur, Veronica and Diana McGonagall stood off to one side, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Molly perched on the arm of an oversized chair with Professor Dumbledore across from her, talking to the figure encased within animatedly. It was that figure that Thierry, now crossing the room, was concerned with. "_Salut._"

"_Salut_," Lucille responded. Her manner was curious. She had been moody, icy, fiery, near insane with rage - and sometimes and somehow melting into a gooey warmness from any of the four without warning - but never before this polite indifference.

"How's your French?" he asked.

"It was terrible to start with," she answered slowly, measuring out each word as if it was a drop of poison on the chalice that held the key to her sanity. "I didn't realise how bad until I left the country. But it got better. Day by day. I still had trouble understanding a everything around me though." Her eyes locked with his. Steadily. For the first time he saw a ghost of emotion there. "I didn't realise that you actually spoke slower for me until I got there. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," Thierry said.

"Lucille has told me that she wishes to continue with her flying lessons," Dumbledore beamed up at him. "Isn't that interesting, Mister Delacour?" Thierry nodded noncommittedly. "Now if you will excuse me, I must have a quiet word with Headmaster Dippet. I'm certain that you young people have a lot to catch up on."

**A**fter Lucille's return no one expecting things to go back to normal. But they weren't quite prepared for exactly how abnormal things would be.

The now-eldest female Black had mood swings severe enough to make a Furie look like a sedate creature. She would spend one minute screaming at a second year for coughing too loudly, only to beam sunnily when the unfortunate victim would stammer out an apology. Her marks began to suffer as well. Her performance in Potions was mediocre at best, but now descended to downright abysmal. She was also becoming increasingly taciturn and reclusive, spending long pockets of time tucked away in the library yet returning with nothing to show for her absence.

Molly grew increasing vexed by Lucille's turns. She could charm beetroot out of a shirt and was adequate to dispensing boy advice to her younger sisters, but when it came to matters more weighty than the Ravenclaw boy in Elsie's Herbology class who continually tugged on her braid, she felt herself hopelessly ill-equipped. She therefore decided her best Lucille tactic to be distraction. "So what were those cousins of yours like, Lucille? Are French girls as beautiful and as stylish as they're said to be?"

"More so," Lucille said with a sigh. "Their fashion is at least two years ahead of ours, and they're so tanned too! We went to Monaco for a weekend. I just felt like a beacon of whiteness next to them. They said I looked _tres jolie_ in my new bikini, but I think they were just being nice."

"Well, if you want to do some tanning here at Hogwarts, I've found somewhere." Lucille displaced the first visible signs of interest Molly had seen since she arrived back. "There's a new greenhouse out the back for tropical plants. It has special glass to filter the maximum amount of sunlight, and its very warm inside. The NEWT class had a lesson in there last Thursday. Ronnie said she almost died from the heat."

"Won't we get caught?" Lucille asked, her voice dropping to an anxious whisper.

"It's Saturday on a Hogsmeades weekend. No one will be around. We can wear our robes there and take them off while we're inside. Although it might be better if we tell Veronica or Thierry where we're going. Professor Haricots growing a Strangler inside."

"A Strangler?" Lucille blanched.

"We'll stay in the section of the greenhouse away from it," Molly assured her. This was certainly a role reversal: Lucille preaching caution and Molly throwing it to the wind. "Besides, it's heavily restrained. The chance of anything happening to us is very slim."

"Alright then," Lucille looked far from convinced. "Why is Thierry - and Veronica - staying behind anyway?"

"We have practice. Thierry wanted to take advantage of most of the older students going to Hogmeades. He's afraid Jeremias Bole is trying to steal his strategies." Lucille snorted. "I think he also has a commitment with Dumbledore, a detention or something."

"Right," Lucille said. "I have a detention too, with Noir in the Forbidden Forest. Well technically my detentions have finished, but Dumbledore thinks I need the extra practice. He says it will help me stay on a broom better, and a horse is less risk than a broom - one, because it can think for itself, two, because it's less far to fall off a horse. I suppose I could ask Hagrid if we could go around the lake; it's a much more scenic view and it would be a shame to be cramped up in that dark damp forest on such a sunny day. I could pack a picnic and take some sugar cubes for Noir, he has a real sweet tooth-"

"Lucille."

"Okay, I'll ask if I can do it in the morning instead of in the afternoon, we'll get better sun then."

"You do that. But if you can't find Hagrid or the mule-"

"He's not a mule, he's a _stallion_."

"-come back here and we'll go anyway, alright?"

They went their separate ways, Molly shaking her head bemusedly. She had never seen Lucille, who typically bemoaned even the smallest and most well-trained housedog as being dirty and smelly, this attached to an animal. Her sense of compassion did not usually extend to anything that could threaten the print of her Mary Quant skirts with its ill-placed paws. Although uncharacteristic of Lucille, it was a good thing. Her friend could do with some unconditional love right now, a warm body with soulful brown eyes and without a critical tongue.

A quarter of an hour later Lucille came bounding up the stairs to their dorm. "I couldn't find him," she panted. "He's probably out looking for satyrs again." She dashed over to her wardrobe and withdrew something lemon coloured that barely filled one hand. "I'm going to the lavatory to get changed. I'll meet you in the common room in ten minutes."

"Let's make it twenty," Molly advised. It was better to err on the side of caution when arranging to meet Lucille when she was arranging an outfit. Although judging by the size of the bundle in her hand, "outfit" may have been a tad too generous.

She was just pulling her cloak on over her beach outfit when what had been so unusual about Lucille's disappearing act hit her. They had known each other for over ten years and even in recent years, Lucille had always got changed in front of her. If her friend had not bemoaned her gallic cousins' lack of modesty, Molly would have put it down to the new environment bringing out a hitherto prudish side of her nature, but this made no sense. She packed a towel and sunscreen in her school bag and knowing Lucille's prolonged efforts in getting ready, did the same for her. As predicted, the other girl was absent from the common room. She made idle chit-chit with Herbie Jordan (who, probably owing to the widespread knowledge of Elodie Black's death, had been making a conscientious effort to be civil to her) until Lucille appeared.

"Here I am," she said unnecessarily. "Are you ready to go yet?" Molly turned to Herbie and gave an exaggerated wink, who giggled. He really wasn't a bad kid. "Oh great, you packed my bag too," she said, spying the second one next to Molly's. "Did you get my transistor radio and French mags? Wait until you see what they wear on the Riviera-"

"Ooh, you went to France, didn't you?" Herbie perked up. "Did you eat any frogs there?"

"_Herbie_."

"It's alright Molly," Lucille laughed. "No, I didn't eat any frogs - but I sure met a few. My first cousin by marriage was a right sleaze," she whispered as an aside to Molly.

"Oh," said Herbie, looking slightly disappointed. "It would have been cool if you did. The only frog I've eaten was made out of chocolate."

"Well, if she goes there again, she'll bring you back one, alright?" Molly said. Herbie grinned enthusiastically. Lucille had disappeared up the stairs for her precious radio and magazines. "We're going to the library to do our Transfiguration essays now. I'll see you at practice after tea."

Herbie's eyes twitched - he was a smart boy and telling him that they were going to the library yet planning to bring a radio with them had probably been a bit too much - but he said nothing.

Half an hour later they were in the greenhouse and preparing to settle into a lazy morning. Molly had brought along her Arithmancy textbook, but more out of a sense of obligation than anything else. Her own swimsuit had been a sixteenth birthday present. It consisted of a halterneck top and matching shorts, and as it revealed quite a bit of stomach, had needed a fair deal of self-convincing before she could display it on the beach in summer. But next to Lucille's it was almost ridiculously decent. Hers was little - in fact, nothing - more than two triangles held together by a bit of string and a belted bottom which hung dangerously low on her hips and left absolutely nothing of her thighs to the imagination.

"Oh, come on," she said, at least having the grace to have look slightly abashed. "At the Cote d'Azur they go topless!"

Molly bit her lower lip. Even part of Lucille's cheeks - and not of the facial variety - were visible in that contraption. If circumstances had been different she would have made the comment about Lucille's mother rolling in her grave. That thought sobered her up. At least Lucille was smiling and looking relaxed, which was the most important thing. She was even swinging her feet as she lay on her stomach, reading one of her magazines. "Remind me never to go to the Cote d'Azur," she said, and Lucille laughed. "Seriously, aren't you even the slightest bit worried?"

"Worried?" The mirth left Lucille's eyes. "About what?"

"About what Diana's going to do to you when she discovers her favourite hankerchief missing. The lemon-coloured one she bought in France."

"Shut up, Molly," Lucille grinned. "And actually, Constance bought it for me as a going-away present." Her attempt at humour had the predicted affect. She started to feel needed, useful, like she was less of a bystander to Lucille's private grief.

They lay for a while in silence. Molly figured that if other girl needed to talk, she would. She borrowed one of Lucille's magazines and looked over the glossy pictures, not even bothering to read the articles and attempting to understand what to her was just a wall of senseless words. By the way Lucille's eyes flitted from one side of the page to the other, she was evidently having more success. But then something caught her eye. "Lucille, is this what I think it is?"

"Yes, it is," Lucille confirmed. Molly's mouth dropped open. "If it's any consolation, the magazine is designed for married witches, but all my cousins were still reading them. And if you tap the blank squares on each page with your wand, they turn into diagrams complete with movement-"

"_Lucille Elodie Black_! You really shouldn't be reading things like that."

"Why not?" Lucille turned to face her, her chin raised defiantly. "I'm not too young. I'm sixteen, I'll be of age in two years, and they're talking about an amendment that lowers the coming of age to seventeen. Besides, I may be married sooner than you think."

"Why do you say that?" Molly asked, surprised by the casual way Lucille had dropped the issue of marriage into the conversation. Usually she spoke of it as if it was an act akin to slavery.

"Well, it's just that in certain families, one does things differently," Lucille shrugged. "Father's been saying that things will soon be changing now that Mother has-" she swallowed "-left us. There's going to be a lot of tightening up around our place, a lot of returning to what Father calls the old ways."

"Lucille, what the hell?" Molly barked. "Did you mix Gillywater with your pumpkin juice this morning or something? What in Merlin's name are you on about?"

"You wouldn't possibly understand," Lucille said in that same annoyingly idle, superior tone.

"Oh really? Well, just try me, Lucille. I hardly think that you're the one to accuse me of lacking in common sense or the like-"

"Ah, what an enjoyable _matin_ the two of yer seem to be 'aving," a familiarly accented voice spoke up.

Molly and Lucille both spun around. Thierry was grinning down at them. "Fancy seeing yer 'ere Molly, an' yer too, Lucille."

"Likewise," Lucille squeaked. Molly could feel herself turning red.

"I've certainly seen more of yer this mornin' than usual, Lucille," Thierry continued, his eyes crawling lazily over her. Lucille had risen to her feet and was standing self-consciously in front of him. She half-raised her hands to cover herself, then realised what she was doing and forced them to lie stiffly against her sides. Thierry was looking at her in a way that wasn't disrespectful exactly, but made Molly very aware that he was a man and that he was looking at Lucille as a woman. She may as well have not existed. Lucille bit her lip and looked away. Thierry, seeing her discomfort, redirected his gaze elsewhere. "Ees zat a Stranglaire in the corner?"

"Yes," Molly supplied since Lucille's tongue seemed to have disappeared. "Professor Haricot had it brought in three weeks ago under ogre watch." The plant in question waved one tentacle alluringly. It was heavy restrained against several poles. Nothing had been planted near it, but even the cactuses adjacent to it were leaning away warily.

"Why are you here anyway?" Lucille asked, a little rudely.

Thierry's eyes swung back to her. She took a half step away. "Do I need _une raison pour visiter _my English friends?" he asked. "I 'eard raised voices, thought that _peut-etre_ they were firs' years and was goin' to tell them to get away from the Stranglaire, but instead I saw yer two in 'ere."

Lucille's eyes narrowed assessingly. "How did you know that there was a Strangler in here?"

"_Pourquoi_ do yer ask so many questions, Lucille?" Thierry shot back. "If yer want me ter go, jus' say so."

"I don't want you to go," Lucille responded. "If I did, I would just say so. I just want to know why you asked us if that was a Strangler when you obviously knew that there was one in here."

Thierry eyed her suspiciously for a moment, as if trying to determine if she was taking the mickey out of him. Lucille's face remained blank. "Well, it's settled then," he said. "Lucille doesn't want me to go and neither do I. Does that end _tous nos problemes_?" Lucille nodded. "_Parfait_! So everyone can enjoy _le soleil_ in peace an' quiet!" He tossed his cloak to the ground and peeled off his wool vest with a grimace. "_Merde, il fait chaud_."

"It would be nice if someone gave me a straight answer for once," Lucille muttered, lowering herself back onto her towel. Molly nudged her foot in warning. She had practice with Thierry and the rest of the Quidditch team that afternoon and didn't want her captain to be in a foul mood.

**W**hen Molly arrived at the stadium huffing with her lateness-induced jog and pushing stubborn curls behind her ears and Thierry approached her, holding a bat much larger than the one she normally used, for one split second of panic she thought that his disciplinary methods had reached new extremes. However he was smiling and the team members zooming around them, although working hard, appeared to be in good spirits, so she gathered that the Frenchman was in one of his less zealous moods. "Ah Molly," he said, "today yer weel not be flyin' weeth ze rest of ze team."

Molly's nerves returned. "Look Thierry, I tried to be on time. I really did. But one of the fourth year girls was baking a cake and she'd forgotten to put baking powder in it - well, you can understand why I couldn't leave a travesty like that untouched, can't you?"

"_Absolutment_," Thierry said solemnly, but she thought she saw a corner of his mouth twitching as he spoke. "Zese things 'appen, don' worry Molly. I don' want yer to fly _aujourd'hui parce que tu dois_ improve yer 'ittin' ability. Zis ees a baseball, _un_ part _d'un jour_ Muggales play _pour s'amuser_."

"English please, Thierry," Molly said. She'd noticed that his lack of ability to distinguish between the two languages had become worse since Lucille had returned from France.

"Yer flyin' ees fine," Thierry continued, "but yer need to practice yer 'ittin' more. I noticed that _pendant_, er, "during" de match between 'Ufflepuff _et nous_, yer were a leetle shy with some hits, _especialment quand_ yer were 'ittin' at Amos Diggory." If Thierry noticed the delicate pink spreading across Molly's cheeks, he was too kind to comment. "Then Arthur mentioned zis Muggale sport an' I thought eet would be a good way for yer to concentrate on yer 'ittin'. I weel charm zee ball ter fly at yer an' yer weel 'it eet away. Don' relax too much, eet weel fly quickly."

"Er, Thierry," Molly squeaked, "could you slow the ball down a little? It's less than three weeks away from the Halloween ball, I haven't found a date yet, and if I end up with a broken nose, my chances of getting a bloke to go with me are next to nothing."

"Aw, don't worry Molly," Thierry soothed. "Yer seemed to 'ave made quite an impression _sur_ Frank Longbottom on ze firs' day back. I am sure zat 'e weel not be lookin' north long enough ter notice yer _nouveau_ physicale ahmperfection."

Molly forced herself to keep the bat at her side.

"You don't need to charm the ball." Arthur Weasley, coupled with William Zjablomej, had arrived at her side. "I can hitch it to her. That's what they call the movement used to throw the ball," he explained in a proud offside to Molly. "Hitching." He attempted to demonstrate and almost tripped over his own foot. "Well, not quite like that," he clarified sheepishly.

"We know what you mean, mate," William assured him. He sent Molly a sideways wink, who giggled.

"What are yer doin' 'ere?" Thierry, enlightening to the Hufflepuff's presence, spun around sharply. "Spyin' on our tactics, are yer?"

"Actually, I've just popped over to give Ronnie my Potions textbook," Will said. "She wanted to look over some of the OWL material for her essay. But if you're uncomfortable by my ability to see what's going on, I'm sure we can reach some kind of compromise." He theatrically covered his eyes and began feeling around in front of him as if he was playing Blind Man's Buff. "Oh Veronica, Veronica, wherefore art thou Veronica? Ah, there you are." His hand came into contact with Thierry's cheek, then he felt downwards to the Frenchman's chest. "Eh Ronnie, you eating well? You seem to have lost weight in some places-"

"Well, fancy seeing you here." Veronica had dismounted from her broom and was standing behind them. William cringed. Arthur and Thierry sent each other Ooh-he's-really-in-the-poo-now grins the way only males could. "It's all very well for him, but if either of you two were saying that, it would be "Don't you talk to my Veronica like that" with a Bat Bogey or two thrown in." She tossed the shame-faced fifth year a quick smile. "_Very_ luckily for you, my lad, your girlfriend has a good sense of humour."

"Yeah, something about your still going out with me even though you know what my last name is clued me in to that," William said. "Pay no mind to her," he continued airily to the rest of his audience. "I've got her in the palm of my hands."

"You proofread my Astronomy assignment yet, Chocolate Froggy?" Veronica deadpanned.

Thierry and Arthur snorted into their hands.

"She must have been inhaling too many fumes during Potions." William had the good grace to smile. "She knows that I wear the robes in our relationship."

"Give me your textbook and stop acting like a prat," Veronica told him. "You free for the Halloween Ball, Arthur? I think I'll soon be single again."

"So I'll see you in the library at seven then?" William fluttered his eyelashes beguilingly at her, then ducked as she took a playful swipe. "Uniformly charming is my girlfriend, and charming in that uniform, if I may be so bold."

"Shut up moron, I already said I'll help you with your Arithmancy," the uniformly charming girlfriend said nicely. "Now stop trying to embarrass me in front of my friends and go back to your den."

"Your wish is my command, Ronniepoo," Will said, sweeping into a theatrical bow.

Molly began to giggle. "Don't pay him any attention; it'll only encourage him," Ronniepoo said. "He's unused to it you see, his house gets little enough of it. Now scaff off, you piewad."

"What do you mean, "his house gets little enough of it"?" Will demanded. "Thierry, I'm afraid I'll have to risk grievous bodily harm to your star Keeper, it's a matter of house pride now." He made a lunge at Veronica, who jumped out of the way and poked her tongue out at him.

"I theenk we should double ze pay, no?" Thierry asked Arthur.

"What pay?" Arthur blinked.

"Zee pay fer bein' 'er boyfriend an' keepin' ze rest of ze 'Ogwarts boys safe from 'er," Thierry clarified solemnly.

"Oh. Right," Arthur caught on. "How about going up to ten Gallons per week, Will?"

"That just might do it," the dodging Hufflepuff responded.

"Ten?" Veronica squealed indignantly. "I'm only worth ten?"

"It will drop down to eight if you don't learn to keep your chamberpot mouth in check," her boyfriend responded. "Although personally I feel the task is worth at least an Order of Merlin: Second Class." A clump of mud came sailing through the air to hit him on the shoulder. "Make that First Class," he amended.

"Seriously Arthur, 'ave yer found a date _pour_ ze 'Alloween Ball?" Thierry asked.

For some reason Arthur found he couldn't look anyone in the eye. Particularly Molly.

"Yer bettair 'urry up, _mon garcon_," Thierry said, correctly interpreting Arthur's silence," _ou tout_ ze best ones weel be taken."

"Ooh, I hate it when boys talk like that," Veronica squealed, trying to struggle out of Will's bearhug. "Mols, since Lucille isn't here, can you do the honours and put that whopping big bat you're holding to good use?"

"Why?" Arthur pokerfaced. "What has it done?" He felt strangely gratified when Molly laughed along with the interhouse couple.

"Yeah, save the rainforest, doll." William was trying to pin Veronica to the ground, with various levels of success.

"Ah, screw yer all," Thierry retorted.

"For real Thierry, for once in your life can you think with your other brain?" Arthur contributed his Sickle to Witches' Rights.

"Why?" the part-Veela asked blankly.

"Because, because," Arthur fumbled. "Er, William can you help me out here?"

"Because chicks dig that intellectual stuff," William said. "Except this one, she just likes mindless violence towards innocent little boys."

"Innocent little boys who betray people that they make alliances with."

"You underestimated me because I'm a Hufflepuff," William waggled a finger at her. "People only trick you as far as you let them."

"Fair point," Veronica conceded amicably.

"So 'ow deed yer manage to get one ovair our Veronica?" Thierry asked.

"_My_ Veronica," Will said.

"No one's Veronica," Veronica corrected.

"I thought with the right brain, Thierry," Will gave him an exasperatedly good-natured look. Veronica beamed up at him proudly. "So, who are you going to the Halloween Ball with, Molly?"

"I'm waiting for someone special to ask me," Molly blabbered. Arthur was too busy contemplating the broken shoelace on his right shoe to see Veronica and Will elbowing each other or the loaded looks Thierry was sending in his direction.

"Right? I'm surprised a pretty girl like you hasn't been snapped up already," Will said, sidling up to Arthur with intent. "I'd ask you myself if some Furie hadn't already sunk her claws into me." Veronica snorted.

"_Oui_, a pretty girl oo can cook," Thierry said, looking as though he wanted to rip Molly's bat out of her hands and knock Arthur over the head with it.

"Well, you might want to tell him that, because he hasn't asked me yet," Molly said huffily. "If Herbie Jordan - who hasn't said a pip about balls of the non-Quidditch variety all afternoon - is going to muck around, I might just ask him to hitch the ball to me."

"Herbie says plenty about balls of ze non-Quidditch variety," Thierry grinned.

"Girls present, Thierry," Arthur warned.

"Not for much longer," Molly said. "See you Will, Arthur." She took the ball out of Thierry's hands and walked towards Herbie.

The other three barely waited until she was out of airshot before turning on Arthur. "Did you see the look she was giving you?" Will demanded. "She was so gagging for you to ask her, man."

"Actually-" Veronica attempted.

"Do yer 'ave balls ze size of a Grindylow's or what?" Thierry contributed with his usual delicacy. Arthur winced.

"Yeah, really can't see why us Hufflepuff blokes are stealing all your women," Will said blithely. "Arthur, for real, Molly may seem really loud and bossy, but when it comes to the, uh-"

"Things that need their mouths blasted out with a Scorgifying charm?" Veronica supplied, glaring at Thierry.

"In some extreme cases," Arthur said diplomatically.

"I do not need mannaires," Thierry said huffily, "I 'ave a beeg-"

"-Nose," William timely cut him off. "As I was saying, Molly may seem loud and bossy, but with us blokes she may actually be quite shy. She's not going to ask you, so if you wont, well…"

"But I'm shy too!" Arthur insisted.

"So yer do concede zat yer like 'er zen?" Thierry grinned wolfishy.

Arthur realised that he'd been duped. "You bastard."

"What friends are for," Thierry shrugged.

"Thierry, shut up," Veronica said helpfully.

"My point is," Will tried valiantly to keep the conversation on serious grounds, "is if she doesn't say anything, and you don't either, then nothing will ever happen. You could have two people here who are really interested in each other, but unless one of you makes a move, you may as well not like each other. One of you has to do something."

"Well-" Veronica reattempted.

"I mean, if the worst comes to the worst and she says "no," at least you'll know where you stand. How much can a rejection hurt?"

"Yeah, 'ow much can a rejection 'urt?" Thierry echoed. "I mean, I wouldn't know. I've nevair been rejected."

"For Merlin's sake, you guys," Veronica said huffily. "Molly isn't interested in Arthur. She's interested in someone else. I know who, but since I'm in the presence of the most tactless man in the school, I'm not saying anything more. I'm sorry Arthur, but that's how it stands."

"Oh well," Arthur shrugged, suddenly finding the tussock in front of him very interesting, "there are other fish in the sea, I suppose. And if what Will says is true and the Hufflepuffs are indeed stealing the Gryffindor girls, I could always ask one of their own. There's probably a shortage over there."

"Ar, come off eet," Thierry said. "Eet's early days yet. Don' give up."

"Yeah, Arthur. Don't tell me you're going to let a Gryffindor lose out to-" Veronica broke off abruptly, glancing up at Will and blushing "-a dandy who was spotted wearing a pink shirt last Hogsmeades weekend."

"Nice recovery," Will murmured.

"Thank you," Veronica responded.

"Look, why does everyone feel like getting me set up is their number one agenda?" Arthur exploded. "I'm tired of everyone assuming that I need help in that department. Did any of you ever stop and think that maybe I don't want a girlfriend?"

"_Actualement_, a girlfriend was not what I 'ad een mind," Thierry said.

"Shut up, our Mollys not that kind of girl," Veronica said.

"Whatever! I'm sick of it! I'm going back to the common room to work on Lucille's radio. If anyone has anything further to add on how hopeless I am with women, that's where you can find me." He turned on his heel and stalked off.

The remaining three gave each other abashed looks. "Er, _peut-etre _we were a beet too 'eavy zen," Thierry suggested.

"Ya think?" Veronica spat out. "Will wasn't so bad, you were heavy in the same way as a cavetroll is heavy, Thierry. It's no wonder poor Arthur is clueless about women given who he has as a role model."

"_Moi_?" Thierry looked confused. "But I do vair weel with zee ladies."

"You do well with getting laid," Veronica said, "but not with all the other stuff. You may be able to get girlfriends but you certainly can't keep them."

"Veronica, play nice," Will said, noticing Thierry's darkening expression. "What is it with you guys? Normally you're as thick as house-elves, but this week you've been sniping at each other like crazy. It can't be good for you - and it's not very pleasant for the people around you," he added under his breath.

Both Gryffindors looked shamefaced. "It's Lucille," Veronica said eventually. "She's been - well, one can only imagine what's going through her head right now - and she's very difficult to be around at the moment. We can't take it out on her, so I suppose we've been taking it out on each other. I'm sorry, Thierry."

"Zere ees nothin' to be sorry for," Thierry said.

"Is it like this in Hufflepuff?" Veronica asked.

"It's a little, er, quieter," Will said tactfully. Veronica and Thierry both gave him skeptical looks. "Alright, much quieter," he admitted.


	13. Wearing Masks

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

Author's Note: I'm aiming to get this finished before _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_. I don't have any exams this semester, so if I write a chapter ever two/three days, it's a doable task.

Additionally I would like to warn you off this and the next few chapters because of questionable content regarding **eating disorders**, if this subject disturbs you. What I've written still fits within guidelines and isn't very graphic, nor a big part of each chapter, but nevertheless I wanted to caution you in case you are or have been personally affected by them. If you want to avoid these chapters but would like to continue reading this fic, email me and I'll contact you when this part is over. Finally, I would like to clarify that this part of the fic is not written from personal experience and if you don't find it compatible with the reality of having an eating disorder, then it probably isn't. I will however try to deal with the subject matter as sensitively as possible.

**Chapter Thirteen: Wearing Masks**

**S**he sat in the library clutching the rejected paper, her body inert with the double-whammy of helplessness and despair. She knew that no matter how many candles she burned over late-night assignments that seemed to take her peers a fraction of the time, how thoroughly she prepared for class and poured over Potions manuals, that the sadistic Slytherin-favouring Finch would always find something to catch her up. Pride prevented her from asking someone like Diana, Arthur or Thierry for help, and a lack of it from standing up to the Potions master and exchanging poison with poison, as Thierry was wont to do. True, his sharp tongue had landed him in more than a few detention halls, but at least he could still hold his head high. She wasn't as talented as him, never had been, and was never given a chance to be, due to her own perceived lack of intelligence and know-how. She only wanted one thing - one small, _little_ thing - that would distinguish her from her nauseatingly brilliant family.

It was true that others saw her as being intelligent. She saw that not so much as her being "smart," but rather "smart at playing smart." She didn't get good marks because she was truly worth them, but because she worked three times as hard as anyone else. She worried that she would eventually be caught out. And exposed. A dumb girl masquerading at intelligence in a mask that her father's wealth and prestige had afforded, and indeed, cost, her.

Sometimes she wondered what exposure would cost her, what would happen if one day she tore off the mask and displayed what lay underneath to the rest of the school, indeed, the world. In some ways it would be a relief, for she was not only dumb, but mute also, with this mask, her true features stifled underneath. At times it was so much of a burden to keep the mask in place, for its elastic was fraying from years of use and the weight of the porcelain was causing the painted face to slide further down her own. Sometimes she thought how nice it would be to be free of its weight, to watch it go crashing towards the floor and eventually splinter into a thousand pieces. But shards hurt if you stepped on them. And secrets were secrets because they were meant to be.

No, she would never, could never compete. She would keep this mask on for as long as it would stay on, until the porcelain chipped, the paint withered and faded, until the elastic securing it to her face would snap, or was snapped off for her. And she had the feeling as her NEWT year inched closer, that the elastic was wearing dangerously thin.

Sighing, she quietly replaced her scroll on the desk and snapped her neck from side to side, giving herself the rare luxury of a break. Thierry was the one that she feared the most. Thierry, she felt, was the one who would see beyond the mask at the flawed, chipped creation underneath. And what killed her was that she knew he would treat her not with scorn, but pity, when pity was what would strangle her because pity was what you felt for those who were beneath you. And she was beneath him, which was why that, despite being in the same group of friends and after all these years, she had never approached him with how she felt about him. True, she hated him for caring. But she hated herself worse for caring back.

At the sudden utterance of her name she jumped. Alistair Bell from Ravenclaw was sitting a few table behind her, asking if she had done the Arithmancy homework yet, when she knew as well as anyone that asking someone if they had finished a set of homework was as good as asking them for help. A _Ravenclaw_ asking for her assistance! She allowed herself to bask in the moment before eventually replying, "Yes," trying to ignore the way the lie sat in the back of her throat.

"Already?" Alistair's face brightened, impressed. "Would you mind if I took a quick look at it then? I won't copy it, I just need a bit of direction, you know."

Without even bothering to give him the impression that she had considered his request, she gave him a curt, "No."

Alistair looked taken aback, but politely maintained a pleasant facial expression. "Fair enough," he said amicably. "Wouldn't want me ruining all your hard work, would you? Completely understandable. Well then, would you like to just take a look at mine and give me some feedback on what I've done so far? I've only done two and a half scrolls," he rushed on, seeing her hesitate, "but I'd like to know if it's what he's after. You don't have to give me the right answers if you like, but if you could just tell me I've done anything wrong-"

"No," she said flatly.

For a moment Alistair's face flushed with his efforts of trying to contain his temper, then it gradually drew taunt, his lips in a thin, hard line. "Well, then," he said in a voice husky with unreleased anger, "I suppose I'd best be off now! I've evidently been given my marching orders!" He stood, dumping his texts into his bag with quick, angry movements. She watched silently. Eventually he heaved the now-brimming bag into his shoulder. He was about to leave, but instead stopped and said, almost as an afterthought, "You know, there may come a time when even you need someone's help. Just think about that for a minute."

Her chin jerked upright. "I will _never_ need anyone's help."

Alistair seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. Instead he stalked out of the room as quickly as his heavy bag would allow him, leaving her alone with her dark thoughts.

She wiped her sweating palms on her skirt and exhaled slowly, carefully. Alistair had done two and a half scrolls already. She hadn't even _started_. She had pushed the intricate assignment to the back of her mental recesses, postponing its public airing as long as possible. In truth it was far too difficult for her. That she couldn't control. But there was something she could. Some painful, dulling, even comforting secret that was all her own, that was so awful that no one would suspect or discover it.

Slowly she rose to her feet, checking the presence of the beech and unicorn hair wand in her cloak pocket. The bathrooms near the dungeons were always deserted, and would most definitely be at this cold, still time of night.

_Earlier that day_

**T**he Halloween Ball, or what Diana McGonagall had scornfully termed "the silly season," was gaining ground on time. It soon became impossible to talk about, or concentrate on, anything else. Thierry came uncharacteristically close to ending one Quidditch training session early due to lack of focus, verbally lamenting the day that he had ever let girls onto the team. Holly Wood had told him that he would make a smashing pirate and giggled.

"Money permitting, I'd like to go as something that truly makes everyone drop their wands," Molly mused over lunch one day. "You know, something really scary. Although according to Lucille, girls in high school don't really dress the same way for Halloween parties as they did when they were younger."

"But it's true," the girl in question insisted. "They use the occasion as an excuse to wear as little as possible so that they can get all the boys to look at them. You should see what Imelda Page is planning to wear. It would make my bikini look like a turn-of-the-century nun's habit, Molly."

"Lucille, is Imelda Page the sort of person that you would want to emulate?" Veronica asked. Lucille shook her head vehemently. "So why do you want to copy her costume?"

"Because I don't want to let her get ahead, that's all."

"There's a difference between getting gaped up and getting a man's attention," Veronica continued with studied patience. "But if you really want to outdo her and make yourself look like an even bigger twit, I suggest making a Hair Lengthening potion and going as Lady Godiva. I'm sure Noir would be willing to co operate."

Lucille turned bright red. Thierry smirked. "I don't think I'll go to the Halloween Ball after all," she declared loftily. "I strive to be beyond such trivialities."

Everyone looked at each other mutely, except for Thierry, who rolled his eyes. "_Pah_. I don't see why I should pay too much attention ter a girl who eats 'er banana with a knife an' fork."

The girl who ate her banana with a knife and fork looked slightly chagrined, but wasn't about to give up. "I believe that every household should have a knife specifically for eating fruit with," she said.

"Oh stop bein' so fat-'eaded," Thierry scoffed. Three sets of eyes swivelled back to the Frenchman, shocked that he would talk to Lucille in such a way. "We don't care about such stuff zese days. _Au contraire_, eef yer silverware 'as a knife fer cuttin' fruit een eet, zat means zat ze set ees not inherited. _C'est _un sign of ze _nouveau-riche_, _non_?"

"Well it may come as a shock to you, but I don't particularly care what you think of me," Lucille said breezily. "I'd rather waste my time and energy caring what someone who actually has some influence over my future thinks, like Professor McGonagall. We get our Transfiguration essays back from her today, Molly."

"Lucille, please. I don't want my appetite spoiled." Molly had stayed up past midnight for three evenings in a row to try to get the essay completed. "We've been through this already. We handed in the assignment a week ago. We spent many hours in the library researching it. Zachary Lupin blames it on his migraine. I had to rewrite my entire antithesis at the last minute because I realised that I'd misquoted a source. We _really_ don't want to go through the whole assignment again."

"Speaking of food, are you going to eat your steak?" Roy Connolly asked Lucille.

"I don't think so," she said with a theatrical shudder. "English food just feels so heavy. I swear I've put on four pounds already since being back. Do you think they'll allow some French-trained house elves into Hogwarts to freshen the cuisine, Zachary?"

"Anything is possible," the prefect said diplomatically.

**"S**o, I take it you're going with Will?"

It was now a mere two weeks prior to the ball, and the common room was strangely deserted. Now that everyone had sorted out the finer details of their costumes - everyone barring Lucille, that was, who was spitting pixies after a fifth year Hufflepuff had "nabbed and pilfered" her idea of going as the queen chess piece - attention had shifted to the far more vexing manner of who was going with whom, rather than as what. It turned out that, aside from those with prior commitments, costumes had been the easier part.

"Yeah," Veronica made a face as she stretched out on the floor over her Transfiguration textbook. "We were going to go as two of the founders but then Heather Stratton and Mark Appleby beat us to it. I guess it's pretty appropriate since Mark is a Gryffindor and Heather is a Hufflepuff, they're at least the right genders for their founders. So I'm going as a Veela."

"But that was my-" Lucille started, then broke off under the collective gazes of her three friends. "Nothing," she muttered.

"As for Will," Veronica continued, "what he's going as, I've got no idea."

"Have you asked him?"

"Yeah, but he won't tell me. He says it's a secret. That more than a little disturbs me. Aren't girlfriends supposed to have the right to check over their boyfriend's outfit before they go to an event together, to prevent the boyfriend from turning up in something absolutely horrendous and humiliating them?"

"Well I suppose with it being Halloween, it won't matter too much if he turns up in something horrendous," Molly said. Veronica still didn't look convinced.

"It must be exciting, your first official event as a couple," Lucille said, a little wistfully.

"Well, yeah, but at the same time it does take something away from it," Veronica mused. "Knowing who you're going to go with already isn't have as fun."

"_Fun_?" Molly squeaked.

"But don't you kind of enjoy those nerves, when there's fella you've got your eye on and you're really hoping that he'll ask you, and you're on tenterhooks because you're not sure what is feelings are?"

"Er, if you say so," Molly said.

"If you feel that way, then you could propose a swap with Clarice Appleby," Zachary popped up over his copy of _Advanced Arithmancy_ to suggest. "She's been complaining about a similar thing during Astronomy. She's with Sylvian Davies, the Ravenclaw prefect."

"Tempting, but somehow I don't think Will would go along with that," Veronica said glumly. "Guess I'll just have to put up with him." She undermined her declaration by giving Zachary a sidelong wink. "What about you, Thierry? Who are you going as?"

"Yeah." Lucille had lowered her magazine and was eyeing them with studied disinterest. "Who _are_ you going with?"

"Lucille, I asked Thierry who he was going _as_, not _with_," Veronica pointed out.

"Oh," Lucille said.

"Weel, ter ansaire both of yer questions," Thierry stretched languidly in his chair, "I am goin' as a charactaire from a Muggale book. As ter oo I am goin' weeth, I 'ave not asked 'er yet, but zere was _une fille tres charmante_ in ma Divination class, weel, ma _old_ Divination class, who said zat she would be prepared ter 'elp _moi_ weeth a prediction, an' once I find ze identity of _cette fille_, I weel be 'appy to ask 'er."

"Really?" Lucille said with a dangerously cool etiquette. "What exactly did she offer to help you out with, pray tell?"

Thierry's smile widened to catlike proportions. "Let's joost say zat eef I were ter tell yer, I would not be a gentleman."

"Well, you're not a gentleman anyway, so you may as well tell me," Lucille insisted.

Thierry scowled and started to half-rise from his chair. "Myself, I'm going as a hag," Molly said quickly to diffuse the argument. "Although if Amos Diggory asks me, I'll have to go as something prettier."

"Well, I'd suggest the Grey Lady, but that's who I'm going as," Lucille said, shooting a look at Veronica. "It's my _second_ idea anyway. I would just die if someone turned up in the same costume as me."

"Hasn't he asked you yet?" Veronica asked Molly.

"No, he hasn't," Molly sighed, "and it's getting awfully close to crunch time, if you ask me. What if he shows up in something that completely clashes with my own outfit? At this rate we're going to run out of time to try and co ordinate."

"If you want to go that badly, just ask him," Lucille suggested.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly do that," Molly said, looking scandalised. "I mean, asking a fella to a ball an' all. What would everyone think of me?"

"Well, _I_ would be fine with asking someone to go with me," Lucille began haughtily, "but as _I_ have already been asked to the ball by someone, there was no need."

"Zis ees what I 'ear whenevaire yer open yer mouth," Thierry rapped out. "Me-me-me-me-me-me-me-I-I-I-I-I-I-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Yer not a very interestin' topic of conversation, in case you 'aven't noticed."

Lucille, now extremely red-faced, opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out. She snatched up her books and stormed out of the room.

"Could you try to be a _little_ bit nicer to her, Thierry?" Molly wheedled. "I know she's not normally quite this bad, but this last month has been a trying time for her. Couldn't you just count to ten or something?"

"No, Molly, eet eez precisely because she eez not normally zis bad zat I cannot allow 'er to continue," Thierry said firmly. "She 'as picked up some bad 'abits an' eet 'as ter stop. I know _ce n'est pas facile_, but eef we allow 'er to continue like zis, we are doin' 'er a disservice an' we are not bein' 'er friends. True friends tell ze truth when zey need ter, even eef eet 'urts."

"That being said, you don't have to provoke her by flinging other girls into her face," Veronica told him. "You know how she feels about you."

"How she feels about _moi_?" Thierry echoed. "She theenks zat because I am not a pureblood, I am not worthy of 'er time! Yer must 'ave figured zat out yerself, from listenin' ter _tout_ 'er drivel at ze dinnairetable."

"So how do I get Amos Diggory to ask me to the Halloween Ball?" Molly interceded. Thierry and Veronica, mid-debate, turned to face her. "C'mon guys, I'm getting desperate here."

"Unfortunately, Molly, if you take this option, there's really nothing else you can do but sit on your arse and wait for him to make the move," Veronica said. "I'm sorry, babe, but that's how it is."

**A**s the week dragged on Molly grew increasingly more vexed. She waited for chance encounters and rushed "hi"s in the hallway to deepen into something else, to lead to a "May I speak with you for a minute?" But nothing ever happened. And whenever she saw him conversing in the hall with a pretty girl, her stomach would clench up, fearing that her chance was about to be ruined.

Her thoughts were following this sombre train when Arthur accosted her on the way to the Great Hall after Transfiguration. "Molly, could I have a word?"

"Of course," Molly said, standing to the side to allow other students in the busy hallway to pass. "Actually, I have something to talk to you about too. Could you do me a favour?"

"I'd love to," Arthur said automatically, committing a cardinal sin when it came to answering requests for a favour. Thierry had chided him on that point a number of times, saying he should at least find out what the favour was before responding in the affirmative. "Oo knows," the Frenchman had said breezily. "Yer might end up on yer knees in front of a Slytherin female, an' zat would not do at all."

Thierry was right.

"Oh, I'm so happy you agreed," Molly enthused. "I've been going out of my wits, trying to figure out what I'll do for a date to the ball."

"Oh, oh, yes, certainly," Arthur babbled, his heart doing a canter. Molly Morag had just asked him to the Halloween Ball. "Only too happy to help out a friend."

"Great, because you're the perfect choice. I wouldn't dream of asking anyone else. I mean, I'd trust you with any secret. So when you next see Amos Diggory, I'd appreciate it if you could find out whether he has a date to the ball or not and whether he's interested in asking me - without letting on that I'm interested, of course."

"What?" Arthur blinked.

"Well, _I_ couldn't possibly ask him, I'm not that kind of girl," Molly said huffily. "I bet Lucille asked her date and Veronica asked William Zjablomej, but I believe in the old-fashion things. To an extent."

"Molly, Veronica and Will probably never even needed to ask each other to the ball," Arthur pointed out delicately. "They are an item, after all."

"Well, I bet she would have asked him had they not been a couple," Molly continued. "Some girls these days are so _forward_."

"Yes, like the ones who play as Beaters on their house Quidditch team," Arthur agreed.

Molly smiled sheepishly.

"For real, Molly, I don't know what to do to help you," Arthur admitted. "I don't know the guy that well. He's not a prefect, he's not in our house and he isn't in any of my classes. We do say "hello" when we see each other, but our conversation rarely goes beyond that. If I suddenly take an in-depth interest in his life he may think it's strange. Why don't you ask Veronica and Will? They know him better, and Will is on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. If you catch him at lunchtime he could ask him during their practice this evening."

"But he knows that Veronica and I are really good friends, and if she talks to him its because she knows that I like him, and if he asks her then he knows that he's her boyfriend and that he's probably asking him because she asked him to and the reason why _she_ asked him to is because she knows that I like him and then he'll know that I like him and it will be so embarrassing!" Molly burst out. "If he ever found out that I liked him I'd die."

"I thought that was the whole point," Arthur said. Molly blanched. "So, if I am to understand correctly, you like Amos Diggory-" Molly made frantic hushing motions - frantic _and_ unnecessary, as there was no one near them "-and you want him to accompany you to the Halloween Ball, but you don't want him to find out that you like him?"

Molly nodded wide-eyed.

"That makes absolutely no sense," Arthur told her.

"I know, I know," Molly assured him, "and I know that if anything's ever going to happen between Amos and me he'll have to find out at some point that I've taken a shine to him, but I just can't bear it, you know? Well, I'm sure you _don't_ know. I'm a coward when it comes to this sort of thing, Arthur, but you're so strong and brave. _You_ would never like someone and not tell them, wouldn't you?"

Arthur drew himself up to his full six feet and half an inch and eyed her levelly. "Actually, Molly, I would," he said.


	14. Date Headaches and Little Heartbreaks

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

Author's Note: Yeah, double chapter! I aimed to get these both up before I left, and for once I met my deadline. Additionally I'm short of dates for the Halloween Ball, which will be next chapter. If _you_ want to go as someone's date, let me know (a) what your character's name is, (b) what house she belongs to, (c) what year she is - has to be fourth year or above and (d) what house you want her date to belong to. I can't make any guarantees with (d) as I am a slave of the muse to an extent, but I'll try to keep people happy.

**Chapter Fourteen: Date Headaches and Little Heartbreaks**

**"A**lright, alright, settle down you lot," Professor Haricot said. It was a Monday morning and due the amount of group work involved, the Herbology class was one of the liveliest on the sixth years' schedule. "The reason why I asked you here to the tropical greenhouse today was that we are going to commence the study of a plant that has been a subject of interest among you students for a while now - the Strangler." She rose one hand to dispel the murmurs of interest that had broken out among the students. "To begin with, what can you tell me about the properties of a Strangler?"

Zachary raised his hand. "Stranglers are part of the same family of plants as Mandrakes and Wortroot. It typically takes two years to mature and has to be planted in summer and harvested in autumn to obtain its magical powers."

"Five points for Gryffindor. Excellent work, Lupin. Take another five if you can tell me exactly what those magical properties are."

"A Strangler has no medicinal properties on its own, but when combined with eucalyptus, can make a very effective remedy against asthma. Drank as a tea, it can also act as a concentration aid for several obscure magical studies, such as Amigala."

Next to Molly, Lucille inhaled sharply.

"Well done. And that final point brings me to the reason why we are working with the Strangler today. Professor McGonagall has requested some solution for her directed study Amigala students, along with the Aurors department of the Ministry of Magic. While it is a discipline that requires a lot of dedication and concentration, with little chance of success, Amigala is an useful art for those who may plan to work as Aurors, particularly as Unspeakables. We will be gathering leaves, which I will collect at the end of the lesson and send away to Professor Filch, who will be making the leaves into tea with his NEWT class."

"Only that?" Blair Zabini snorted behind Molly. "When we were told to come to the Tropical Greenhouse, I thought we were in store for something interesting."

"Well, for not only your sake, Mister Zabini, but the sake of your fellow students, I hope that this class does not become _too_ interesting," Professor Haricot said in her booming voice. "Because of the intense nature of concentration required for this activity, you will be working in groups of fours. Two of you will cut off leaves with these-" she tipped her wand at a cupboard, which promptly opened to reveal strange contraptions that resembled scissors, that is, if scissors had handles a yard long "-and the other two will stand behind the first two as guards. If someone in your group enters into strife, aim a Stunning Spell at its flowers - those are the most sensitive parts. Misters Lupin and Burnett, you will work with Misses Bulstrode and Nero. Misters Goyle and Sombre, you will work with…"

"Molly, I have something to tell you about Noir," Lucille whispered in her ear. With the noise of the first group taking their positions in front of the Strangler and the rest beginning to prepare boxes for the tea, it was the ideal time for a private conversation.

"What is it now?" Molly asked. "Are you afraid he's going to stand on your foot?"

Lucille pressed a finger to her lips and glanced around to make sure they weren't being watched. "No, it's not that, it's just - this may sound really silly, but I don't think that he's all that he seems."

"Well, what else can he be?" Molly responded, but this time more quietly, as she did not want a second elbow in her side. "An Amagus?" She had barked out a laugh before she saw the widening of the other girl's eyes. "Oh for goodness sake, Lucille."

"No, no, just hear me out," Lucille insisted, grabbing Molly's wrist. "He just doesn't behave how a horse is meant to behave. I mean, not that _I_ would know," she amended after Molly's derisive snort, "but he really seems to understand what I'm saying. Like the first time I rode him, when Hagrid said that I was too small to get on him and that he was going to lift me up, Noir dropped down on one knee. Then when I gave him sugar for the first time, he nuzzled my coat pocket. Molly, he _heard_ me say that I had more in there."

"He smelt them, Lucille," Molly said heavily. "Now are you sure that you haven't been slipping into Herbie Jordan's stash of Butterbeer on the sly?"

"You can mock me if you want to, but I know what I know. Noir is an Amagus, and Zachary Lupin had better come up with a _very_ good explanation of why he knows so much about the properties of Stranglers if he ever wants me to speak to him again!"

"Now you're being ridiculous," Molly said firmly. "Zachary Lupin knows a lot about Stranglers because he knows a lot about everything, full stop. He probably found out ahead of time that we would be working with a Strangler and read about them."

"Then explain why he's here almost every Hogsmeades weekend, without fail, which is coincidentally _when I have my flying lessons_!"

"He is here almost every Hogsmeades weekend because he is a hard worker, Lucille, a concept I don't expect you to understand. He likes the peace and quiet of the common room to concentrate on his homework without all the silly third years running around. Besides, despite the fact that you have far too much time on your hands if you can come up with stuff and nonsense like this, you seem to have forgotten that on the first Hogsmeades weekend, Zachary went to Hogsmeades. I sat next to him and watched him moon over Cordelia Sinistra for the whole ride. I believe that you had a lesson that day."

"Well, maybe it was another student who took Polyjuice Potion and _pretended _to be Zachary while he was at Hogwarts. I bet Dumbledore brewed it up for him. I bet Dumbledores in on the whole thing. I'm telling you, Molly, that horse is not a horse and there is no better explanation-"

"Misses Morag and Black! What are you doing gas-bagging in the back of the classroom when your partners, Misters Zabini and Hicks, are waiting for you? This activity needs to be carried out with the utmost precision, which is why punctuality is very important. For your reckless behaviour I am taking five points off Gryffindor house - _each_." Molly winced. Several Slytherins grinned while several more of their own classmates sent them daggers. "Now for Merlin's sake, come forward! Given your lack of concentration I think it would be better if you young ladies took the scissors and leave any necessary hexing to the gentlemen. Honestly! If this is an indication of what we are to expect of you during NEWTs next year, I'll-"

"How about you shut up and give us the opportunity to concentrate?" Lucille muttered under her breath as they knelt in front of the Strangler. Molly gave her a sharp look - the last thing her friend needed was a detention. She picked up a pair of scissors, praying the two boys could put their sense of house rivalry on the shelf for long enough not to hit them in the back with Bat Bogies.

Fortunately they had been paired with possibly the two most decent boys in Slytherin house and moved through the activity quite quickly. The nature of the exercise was such that Molly had no choice but to focus her full attention upon it and gave no more thought to Lucille's crazy theories. She still jumped when fingers brushed against the nape of her neck.

"Relax, Morag, I'm just tying your hair back," an idle voice explained from behind her. "If the Strangler got a handful of that I wouldn't fancy my chances of getting you free in time."

"Thank you, Blair," Molly said stiffly, and recommenced her cutting of the plant.

A few minutes late Professor Haricot silently tapped them on the shoulder, signalling that their shift had ended. The girls gathered up their leaves and returned to the back of the classroom, where they began to sort through them with the boys. Leaves of three were useless for anything rather than a hangover remedy, while leaves of four were the most effective when used in the tea for heightened concentration. Molly saw Nicholas Hicks pocket a few of the leaves of three. Blair Zabini's hand brushed against her own, and she jumped.

"Professor, Anna got caught by the strangler!"

A girl with long blond curls was ensnared by the plant, gagging and trying to loosen the death grip of the long green tendrils around her neck. Her partners were leaping up and trying to grab their wands, which had been snatched up by additional branches and danced around just beyond their reach. "Out of my way!" Professor Haricot cried, bustling through a group of students to still the Strangler with a Stunning Spell. "Mister Zabini, please take Miss Burlington to the Hospital Wing. The rest of you, back to work."

Molly had finally accepted that Amos was never going to ask her to the Halloween Ball and had made the decision to fall back on her standby. After class she whispered to Lucille that she would meet her in Potions and caught up to Zachary. "So, do you have a date to the ball yet?"

"What do you mean _yet_? It's this Saturday." Molly tilted her head at him. "Er, as a matter of fact, I haven't."

Outside of the greenhouse it was much colder, the students' white breath fanning out of their mouths as their footsteps crunched over the crisp autumn leaves. Molly was thankful that upon finding out that they would be in the tropical greenhouse, she had not worn her summer uniform as Lucille had. "You mean, a cute, intelligent, sweet guy like you is still available? Are all the other girls in Hogwarts blind or something?"

"Er, well," Zachary ducked his head, grinning and blushing at the compliment, "it's more me that's the problem, actually. I was trying to work up my courage to ask Cordelia Sinistra, but by the time I'd developed enough bottle, Alistair Bell had nipped in before me. You know, it's strange how we're supposedly the bravest house in the school - and maybe we are in other ways - yet when it comes to asking an attractive girl to a dance, we're just as lily-livered as all the others."

"Tell me about it," Molly said glumly. "I was holding out for someone to ask me as well, and Lucille was telling me to just ask him myself, but it feels like something a girl isn't supposed to do, like. And I'd always figured that any bloke you have to chase isn't worth it, you know?" Zachary gave her a sidelong look. "You know, because you're so used to asking us, that if you don't it means you're not interested, yeah?"

"Not necessarily," Zachary shrugged. "You have to take into account what the bloke is like too. Perhaps he's just shy. Or perhaps - you know, you're very friendly and outgoing, but maybe you're not too good at giving out signals to let someone know you're interested in them. It could be that whoever this bloke is, he's been holding a candle for you for a while, but simply hasn't received anything from you to let him know that if he asks you out on a date, you won't hex him to Beauxbatons."

"Where?" Molly asked.

"Beauxbatons? French wizarding school?" Zachary clarified. Molly looked blank. "Once again, I am confronted by the knowledge that I am the only person in the school to have read _Hogwarts: A History_. Anyhow, another thing is that you're quite the chattermouth. It could be that he's being trying to ask you all this time, but you haven't paused for breath long enough."

Molly laughed.

"Well, that's you taken care of," Zachary continued. "I just don't know what to do with myself. I mean, I'm a nice bloke. I listen to girls' problems and I care about what they think. Perhaps I'm one of those blokes that girls only notice when they start to look for someone to marry, you know, husband material. How unsexy. Is it any wonder that I'm still a virgin?" He realised what he said and clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Oh, come on now," Molly said, now blushing herself. "Don't talk like that. You're a fine catch and don't let me hear you say otherwise, Zachary Lupin. Now because it seems to have escaped your notice, I'm still available to _ask to the ball_, you big dolt."

"Ah, yes," Zachary grinned sheepishly. "How rude of me. Molly, would you like to-"

"Zachary Lupin, could I have a word, please?"

Both turned around. Slytherin prefect Georgina Flint stood in the hallway, hands propped on her hips. "Alone?" she said, raising an eyebrow that had to be obeyed at Molly.

Molly left them alone.

**"I**t was like watching one of your caldrons boil over," Molly confided in an indignant hiss to Lucille as the two girls left Potions. "I could see what was about to happen, but I was-"

"-Powerless to prevent it?" Lucille finished sympathetically.

"And then he squeezes in next to me during class and says that he didn't have the balls to say "no" and explain that he'd already sort of asked me, and now I don't have anyone to take me to the ball," Molly finished bitterly. "A Gryffindor going with a Slytherin? Who would have thought? I'd applaud all the interhouse dating going on at the moment if it didn't mean that I was on the losing end of it. How humiliating."

"Try not to get upset over it, Molly," Lucille suggested kindly. "I don't think it was anything personal on Zachary's part. And I know that Georgina Flint is pretty scary, but any guy who'd give you up that easily isn't worth it. I mean, someone like, say, Arthur, would say "no" to ten Georginas if it meant he could go to the ball with you," she added, slipping Molly a sidelong glance.

Molly shrugged noncommittally.

"If you ask me, you may as well ask Amos Diggory to the ball now," Lucille advised. "It's not like you have anything else to lose as things stand. Besides, if he says no at this point, it's more than likely because he already has a date, in which case it doesn't reflect badly on you."

"Well, not exactly, because it means that he would have asked her before me," Molly grumbled.

"My, my, who got caught on the wrong end of a Bat Bogey this morning? Owl just in, pumpkin, not only blokes do the asking these days. Witness how Zachary was snatched out from under your nose. So don't assume that if Amos is no longer available, it's because of any incentive on his part. Perhaps if you'd only considered that a few weeks earlier, you wouldn't be in your current predicament."

"I know, I know," Molly fretted, "but doesn't it seem like you're putting an awful lot on the line? If I were to ask they'd know for certain that I'm interested in them, and I risk getting rejected. It's-"

"-Exactly what wizards have been going through ever since dates were invented," Lucille finished triumphantly. "Which is why I for one believe that if a girl asked a guy, he'll be so relieved not to have to go through all that himself that if she's the least bit cute, sexy, intelligent or interesting, he'll say "yes." And sweetie, you're the lot, so why worry?"

"I don't want Amos to go with me because he's _relieved_," Molly said through gritted teeth. "I want him to go with me because he _wants to_."

"Well, if you're _completely_ out of options," Lucille began philosophically, "Thierry still hasn't discovered the identity of that girl who volunteered to test that obscene prediction I overheard Arthur telling Roy Connolly about. Personally, I think she came to her senses just in time and went into hiding. Although be warned, don't be surprised if he drops you an hour into the evening. I hear he's out to cast."

"You _hear_ he's out to cast?" Molly parroted. "Lucille, you didn't need to hear a rumour to know that. We've known Thierry since first year, remember? When is he ever _not_ out to cast? In fact, I hear the Hufflepuff boys have a pool going. Apparently it's not on whether he casts or not, but how many." She snorted. "Honestly."

"Yes, honestly," Lucille echoed. "We have to be the only two females in this school who aren't blind. I wouldn't do the nasty with him if he was the last wizard on the planet. And even in that dire situation, I'd still resort to Muggles first."

Molly pursed her lips, but made no comment. There had been far too much of that kind of talk issuing from between Lucille's lips for her liking. "I thought you liked Muggles," she ventured eventually. "Four of them in particular. The Beatles, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose I can make exceptions," Lucille grinned shamefacedly. "Besides, celebrities aren't _really_ Muggles, are they? So I suppose they're alright." Molly's mouth fell open. "Anyway, this is me." They had reached the entry of the Great Hall. "_Bonne chance avec Amos_, if you see him there."

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Aren't you coming to lunch?"

"No." Lucille seemed to be having trouble meeting her eyes. "I have to go back to the dorm and work on my costume. Now _Diana_ is going as the Grey Lady. It's not fair. I thought of it first, and now I have to go back to the common room and make my stupid costume all over again. I hate it when people steal my ideas then make better costumes than me."

"You barely eat anything these days," Molly accused. She had already decided it was better to say nothing and keep her thoughts to herself, but her tongue seemed to have a will of its own. "And when you do, you scoff down cakes and lollies. It's not healthy."

"So?" Lucille shrugged. "What do you care?"

"I care because I'm your friend, Lucille."

"Get in line," Lucille snapped. People were stopping to stare at them. Arthur and Thierry had approached the hall, Arthur placing a hand on Thierry's arm to halt him in case they were needed. Lucille, oblivious to all, plowed on. "Everybody seems to want to be my friend these days. Just because Father is high up in the Ministry. It's so tiresome. I'm sick of people trying to use me for my connections."

"Lucille, I've never used you for anything." Molly was stung. "What's gotten into you these days?"

"I would just prefer it if my supposed best friend didn't accuse me of starving myself."

"I _am_ your best friend," Molly insisted. "And I'm not accusing you of any such thing. The only one talking about you starving yourself is you, Lucille. I would just rather you paid more attention than what you're putting into your mouth. Your skirts don't sit as high on your waist as they used to, your face always looks drawn and tired and you walk down the corridors dragging your feet as if you barely have enough energy to get from one side of the room to the other." Lucille remained visibly unmoved. "I'm concerned, that's all."

"Well, save your concern for someone who needs it," Lucille spat out. "I'm fine. I'm eating exactly as much as I need to. Just because _you_ would have to starve yourself in order to be _my_ size, Molly."

Molly was too numb to react. But before she could, Thierry leapt forward and grabbed Lucille's wrist. "Take that back," he ordered.

"There's nothing to take back," Lucille insisted, but her voice had a definite quiver to it and she was inclining her upper body as far away from Thierry's as possible. "I didn't say that she's fat, and I didn't say it like it's a bad thing. I can just see where she's coming from. She would have to starve to be my size, so I can see why she thinks that I am. I was trying to be understanding because, you see, for her, it would be so unnatural, and it would take such a huge effort, to be anything near my size."

"Just keep on talking yourself further into the dragon's belly, why don't you, Lucille?" From the doorway Arthur was watching her with distaste.

"No, don't bother. I've heard enough." Molly's shock had faded to be replaced by a bubbling pit of anger. "I appreciate it, Thierry, but you're wasting your time. These days Lucille only cares about people's feelings if they're pure-blooded and rich. Let's go, Arthur." She snatched his hand and attempted to propel him out of the room. His attention, however, was focused on the other two.

"Well, _bien fait_, Lucille," Thierry hissed, not letting up on his grip of Lucille's wrist. "Were yer tryin' to 'urt Molly's feelings? Eef so, I congratulate yer on ze success of _cet_ venture, an' eef not, zan I am vair afraid of what yer may do when yer are."

"I didn't mean to offend," Lucille wheedled. Even she seemed to perceive that she had gone too far. "I was only trying to help."

"_Comment? Comme ca?_" Molly couldn't understand what Thierry was saying, but he appeared aghast. "_Dis moi_, Lucille, 'ow _exactement_ eez zat supposed to be 'elpin' Molly?" At least Lucille had the grace to look abashed. "Eets you, not Molly, oo needs 'elp, Lucille. Yer lookin' far too skinny zese days, an' eef you want an award _pour_ ze amount of friends yer can lose in a month, yer goin' ze right way about eet. An' Molly eez tryin' ter be yer friend, even though yer are makin' eet vair difficult for 'er."

Lucille's chin regained its stubborn tilt. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to be her friend too. And sometimes being someone's friend mean telling them the truth, even if it hurts. She's my friend and I only want the best for her. You have to admit, for a pureblood witch she is a little, well, porky. All the women from the right families know how to eat properly, and until she does too, she'll never find a wizard with the right connections to marry." Arthur let out an indignant hiss. Lucille shrugged. "Everyone else's thinking it; I'm just saying it."

"Actually, Lucille, everyone else is _not_ thinking it," Thierry responded with the type of too-serene quietness that warned those around him to tread carefully. Everyone except Lucille, that was. Molly didn't know how she managed to look Thierry in the eye and stay on her feet. If she had been the focus of those furious dark eyes, she would have curled into a fetal position. "You are the only one who is thinking it, along with the many other strange beliefs you appear to be entertaining and spouting off liberally these days. Perhaps if you can't think of anything pleasant to say, you should keep your mouth shut before someone does for you with a Sealing Hex. In the meantime you should consider yourself lucky that you are not a man, otherwise I would have bloodied you to a pulp for that insult you just gave Molly. Your upbringing seems to be doing wonders for your social graces, no?"

"Oh, go cast a Sealing Hex on yourself," Lucille snarled. "I hardly think you're in the position to be lecturing me on social graces, when you want to take a girl to the ball purely because you think she'll be a sure thing and you're hardly an example of shining virtue yourself, you half-bred!"

Except for the nervous hiccups from a Ravenclaw girl who had just arrived, the room went deathly quiet. Lucille's eyes widened as she realised what she had said and she took a nervous step back. "Oh no, I didn't mean, I didn't-"

"I think you need to cool off," Thierry said, the softness of his voice belying the menace in his eyes. Taking a step back from the quaking girl, he raised his wand and cried, "_Lasciaquam_!"

There was a loud roaring sound then, as if a trapdoor had been opened, a torrent of water rushed from the sky and dropped on top of Lucille, its force knocking her to the ground. It was as if a waterfall had appeared from nowhere and fell on top of the unfortunate brunette. Scattered giggling and applause arose from the students gathered around the pair, who Lucille had made herself none too popular with after her return. Thierry muttered, "_Touche_," and swept off in the direction of the west wing. His victim could only stare open-mouthed after him.

Cordelia Sinistra stepped forward and helped Lucille to her feet. "Come on, I'll take you to the prefects' bathroom to get you dried off. It's just around the corner. Merlin, what a mess. I don't think Thierry should have hexed you like that, especially not in this weather, but then I can't completely say that you didn't deserve it."

"Come on, Molly." Arthur gave her hand a gentle tug. At some point during Thierry and Lucille's confrontation she had grabbed his, she discovered. "Let's go get something to eat."

"Right," she said, allowing herself to be led inside and seated at the Gryffindor table. Arthur began to pile things onto her plate. Her mind was racing with so many conflicting thoughts and emotions that it took her a while to realise that he was speaking to her. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

"I said, "Was it just me, or didn't Thierry have an accent during some parts of that"," Arthur repeated patiently. "I just found it curious, that's all."

"I wasn't paying too much attention to that part of things, to be honest," Molly admitted absently. "Would you care for some tea?"

**T**hierry's feet rapped across the ancient stones in angry strides. He still couldn't accept what Lucille had just said to both Molly and himself outside the Great Hall. True, she was with a doubt being brainwashed by her family, but he would have never believed she could talk to her best friend that way. At best she had been thoughtless, at worst deliberately cruel. Molly was a normal girl with a healthy amount of curves on her and most of the Hogwarts boys would rather cuddle up to her at night than the increasingly twig-like Lucille. _Most_ Hogwarts boys, that was.

For neither the first nor the last time, he cursed himself for maintaining an interest in the girl. She would be easier to deal with if she was at least being consistently nasty. Despite his admiration for the more external aspects of witches, due to having several gorgeous female relatives he was aware that looks only went so far, and as things stood, Lucille's weren't stretching far enough. But there were times when she treated him better. He had fond memories of their early years at Hogwarts, had seen her vastly different behaviour towards others and could not concede that girl was fully lost to him.

Hastened by his temper, Thierry's legs took him up to the Divination classroom in a matter of minutes. He would just have to wait it out until Arthur, who was presumably eating lunch, arrived. His stomach rumbled a regret that he wasn't doing the same, but it was too late to do anything about that now.

"I thought you didn't take this subject anymore," someone said.

Seated behind his old chair was a Ravenclaw girl with long, dark hair. She was faintly exotic looking, as if she may have been part Asian. Thierry, whose nationality was the least among the things that rendered him exotic, felt an instant affinity with her. "_Oui, c'est vrai_," he said. "I joost came _aujourd'hui_ because I am waitin' for someone."

"You want to find out who was the girl who volunteered to test your prediction," the girl said. She shrugged at his surprise. "You only told your closest friends, therefore, with it being Hogwarts, the whole school knows."

"Oh," Thierry said, feeling a little chagrined. For the first time he realised that those rumours were perhaps not too flattering to the girl involved, especially when coupled with those of what he planned to do to her when they got to the ball.

"You're probably wondering if I know who it is," the girl continued in that same quiet, tranquil manner. "Maybe I do. Maybe the girl who said it meant it only as a joke and she was mortified that you took it so literally. Maybe she's in hiding because she's embarrassed about the rumours circulating the school about how easy she may be to get into bed. Maybe she really does want to go to the ball with you, but not if your sole purpose in taking her there is to sleep with her."

"Oh," Thierry repeated. He had a vast amount of experience in dealing with girls, but this was the only one to make him feel this flustered and unsure of himself. Well, her and a certain Mademoiselle Black. "I am sorry zat she theenks zese theengs of me. Maybe I was joost curious ter find out ze type of person oo would say sometheeng like zat een class, and maybe I thought she seemed intelligent an' foony, an' I wanted to go weeth someone intelligent an' foony. Ze ball goes for five hours. Eef _tout_ ze rumours were true, what _exactement_ would I do weeth 'er ze odaire four an' a half hours?" The girl smiled and blushed. Thierry broke off with an apology. "I joost wanted ter find out what _genre de la fille elle est_."

"Well, now you know," the girl said simply.

Thierry gaped open-mouthed at her. "_C'etais tu_?"

"_Oui, c'etait moi_. It was a joke that really didn't do what I wanted it to."

"_Tu parle francais_?"

"_Oui, un petit peu_. To be honest with you, us Ravenclaw girls aren't too popular as dates outside of our own house. We're seen as being bookish and boring and not, as some would so delicately put it, "_facile_"." Thierry grimaced sheepishly. "Well, good luck finding another date."

"_Attends pour un moment_." Thierry finally remembered that civilised people did not show their tonsils and managed to stop staring incredulously at her. "Yer mean yer 'ave already _trouve quelqu'un autre_?"

"No." For the first time the girl looked unsure of herself. "I just wasn't going to go. And when you asked me if I had already found someone else, you could have at least had the grace not to look surprised. A girl likes to be flattered, you know." Despite her sombre tone a dimple in one cheek threatened.

"_Desole_," Thierry said. "Well, eef yer don' want ter go, zats _un altre chose_ entirely. But eef yer change yer mind, I would quite like ter take yer. And I mean joost ter yer to ze ball, not, er, "take" yer. Eet would be nice ter 'ave an intelligent _fille_ to talkweeth for ze evening." He finished his spiel with the most beguiling smile every last drop of his Veela mother's blood could muster.

"I would like that," the girl said, smiling back. "I'm Catherine, by the way."

"Thierry," Thierry responded. He allowed himself an ironic smile as she, of course, already knew who he was. He leaned forward. They clasped hands.

**"S**o, what are you going as?" Molly asked.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Will winked, whipping an apple off the fruit platter in the centre of the Gryffindor table."Or hit you with a Memory Obliteration charm at the very least. Alright, you haven't nagged me anywhere near as much as Veronica has, so I'll give you a hint. Since my girlfriend, who can brush up quite nicely if I may so say myself, is going as the most potently seductive magical creature known to wizard, I decided to go as something big and powerful to keep unwanted hands off her. That's all I'm saying - but it's still more than she knows. So it would be good if you could somehow let on that you know something that she doesn't know."

"Hey, keep your Quidditch gloves off my friend." Veronica had arrived and was waving her finger playfully at Will. "This is the exclusive society known as Blokes From Other Houses, Despite Being Deemed Vastly Inferior, Who Date Gryffindor Girls. It's only one of us per member, not two, remember?"

"Oh, but I'm so bloody handsome that they said I could have a second," Will said, grinning up at her. He eased back off his seat and swung his long legs out from under the table. "I guess I'll leave my harem to it, then."

"Your _harem_?" Veronica echoed indignantly after his departing back.

"He is _adorable_," Molly beamed.

"You can have him," Veronica shrugged, but her eyes were twinkling. "Perhaps we could do what Zachary suggested and switch dates."

"Yeah, but there's one catch." Molly's sour mood had returned. "I don't have a partner to trade, remember."

"Hmm." Veronica stroked an imaginary beard. "You're still available, aren't you, Arthur?"

"Regretfully, no," Arthur said. "Diana accosted me last Thursday and said something along the lines of being Head Boy and Girl, it was our civic duty to go as partners to this "abominable event." So I'm going as John Lennon and I have no idea what she's going as. I'm a bit afraid to ask, quite frankly."

"John Lennon?" Veronica perked up. "Lucille will love that."

"Yes, because apparently celebrities don't count as Muggles," Molly muttered.

Veronica and Arthur shared a look above her head. "Look, Molly, no more thinking about Lucille," Arthur said firmly. There was a steely look in his eye that she had never seen there before. "You and I are going to take some food outside and eat it in the courtyard. We are going to avoid the subject of Lucille altogether and I, Molly Morag, am going to make you smile."

**"A**nd then I landed in front of him and switched off the Invisibility Booster, and he falls back against his suitcases, frightens Emmanuel by knocking over his cage and cries, "_Sacre Blu_!" So I say, "Yes, the Sacred Blue. That's what I've decided to call her. Isn't she beautiful?"." Both Arthur and Molly squealed with laughter. "Man, I had some good times with that car," Arthur finished wistfully.

"I wish I'd gotten to ride in it," Molly agreed. "I'll never forget the moment when I looked out the window and saw the four of you hovering outside. Near took ten years off my life, that did. We haven't really done a lot together this year, in fact. I mean, we've been in the same group together and all, but never really talked or did something with just the two of us like."

"Yeah," Arthur's throat was suddenly dry. He could feel his heart rapping against his ribcage. "No, we haven't done a lot of that stuff." He remembered Veronica, William and Thierry's advice and tried to muster up the guts to put it into effect. "Listen, Molly, I know it's too late as far as the ball is concerned, but would you like to-"

"Oh, but we're late to class," Molly realised.

"Excused Tardiness forms," Arthur said, patting his cloak pocket. His cheerful tone hid his frustration at the untimely interruption. "I'm not adverse to bending the privileges that come with my position every once and a while, especially since with my level of punctuality, I often have need of them myself. Now, which would you rather have, an upset tummy or to be delayed because of a Leg Locking curse?"

"The upset tummy," Molly said, laughing. "It's not quite as humiliating." Arthur scrawled out the note and signed it with a flourish. "I had a really good time today. Thank you for helping me take my mind off things."

"My pleasure," Arthur said. "Now we should really get back." _Finish off what you were saying to her_, the currently very repressed Gryffindor part of him urged. _Put some fucking balls into it_. But instead he grasped Molly's arm and helped her to her feet.

They walked back in silence, then Molly saw something that made her heart rise and Arthur's sink. Amos Diggory was strolling out of the Great Hall - unaccompanied. She looked back at Arthur and felt a small feather of guilt settle into her stomach. "Arthur, I'm sorry, but would you excuse me?"

"No problem," Arthur shrugged, but for some reason his smile seemed a little tight. "I had to go in the other direction anyway."

"Thanks," Molly grinned. "See you later. And thanks again for lunch." Why did she feel so guilty? Arthur was a friend. He wouldn't mind.

Amos had disappeared at the top of a staircase. Quickening her stride Molly pursued him, thankful that all Thierry's Quidditch practices meant that she wasn't puffing once she reached its summit. That would be most undignified. "Hey Amos, hold up a minute," she called.

Amos, the eternal gentleman, paused, but seemed to be reluctant to do so. "Don't you have a class to go to?" she asked once she caught up to him. "I myself have Astronomy next."

"I'll walk with you," Molly offered. "Arthur Weasley gave me a tardiness pass." She winked and brandished it playfully.

"Ah, friends in high places?" Amos smiled, but seemed to lack his usual heart. "So Molly, what have you been up to lately? I haven't seen much of you around since the Quidditch match."

"Ah, don't remind me of that," Molly grimaced. "It was an absolute travesty. But we have improved lots since then," she added buoyantly. "You won't get such short shrift of us the next time we meet, I promise."

"I'll be disappointed if I did," Amos said. At least his smile seemed genuine that time.

"You won't," Molly assured him. "To answer your original question, I haven't had time to do much with myself with homework and all the extra Quidditch practice Thierry's been making us do. I've had scarcely enough time to make my costume for the Halloween Ball, let alone actually find a date." _Don't do it like that_, she chided herself. _You'll make it seem like you're desperate, and that he's your last resort. Not particularly flattering to both of you_. "I was wondering if you happened to still be free."

"Ah, Molly." Amos averted his eyes. Not a good sign. "I would love to go, but I actually already have a date."

"Oh, alright then," Molly said, hoping the disappointment didn't show on your face. She attempted to joke it off. "I suppose some lucky girl nipped in early and got you, right?"

"Er, actually, I asked her," Amos admitted. He looked so decidedly uncomfortable that Molly would have felt sorry for him had she not felt so acutely so for herself. "I'm really sorry, Molly. Um, I think a few of the blokes on the Quidditch team still haven't found dates. If you like, I can set you up with one."

"No, that's quite alright, thank you Amos," Molly said, forcing some cheer into her voice. She was damned if she was going to seem _completely_ desperate in front of him. "I hope you have a good time at the ball. Just out of curiosity, who are you going with?"


	15. All Hallows Eve

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

**Chapter Fifteen: All Hallow's Eve**

**"I**mogen Page! It was bloody fucking Imogen Page!"

Alongside Molly in the confines of the senior girls' bathroom, Veronica pursed her lips at the sixth year's uncharacteristic profanity-laden tirade, but said nothing. She had heard at lunchtime yesterday about her and Lucille's falling out and gathered that the two were still not on speaking terms, otherwise Molly would have found someone else to let off steam to within the past twenty-four hours.

"And Thierry's asked out some Ravenclaw seventh year so he's off the market too." In her temper Molly squeezed the tube too hard and blobbed toothpaste over her hand. "Damn it."

"Molly, Thierry did not ask her _out_, he asked her to the _ball_," Veronica explained tiredly. "They are not an item; she is simply attending as his date."

"Well, it makes no difference to me. He's still off the market as far as this dance is concerned," Molly grumbled. "Perhaps I really should go as a hag. I may not even need a costume. All the fellas seem to think I'm enough of one as it is."

"Aw, come of it now, Molly." Veronica stroked a padded brush through her straight, shiny locks. "It was just bad luck. I'm sure there were plenty who wanted to ask you, but the word in the halls is that you were waiting for Amos Diggory to ask you. They probably either didn't want to take some girl that some other bloke had already got a claim on, or assumed that you wouldn't have been interested. No one wants to be second best, after all."

"Yeah, you're probably right - as usual," Molly shrugged. "It's not that I so much want a date in itself, it's just that it will be embarrassing not having one when everyone else does."

"Oh yes, especially when they give out the "I'm single, dateless and desperate" signs to wear at the door," Veronica sympathised. Molly stared wide-eyed at her. "I'm _kidding_. Anyway, it's not like everyone's going to stick to their dates all evening like SuperFast Gum. Most people are only going with dates that they asked just for the sake of having dates and will ditch at the first available opportunity so that they can spend the evening with their friends. For that matter you're welcome to pass the time with Will and I. I won't have him for every dance. He may seem graceful airborne, but when you try to get him to follow a tune, it's as if he's got four feet. Four feet stepping on my toes all at once." She winced. "Besides, Arthur will be roped in with Diana for sentry duty - he'll be available to chat with for most of the evening."

"I don't want to be the third wheel," Molly muttered.

"You won't be a third wheel," Veronica smiled gently down at her. "A third wheel is someone who is not wanted. Will and I would love to have your company."

"Oh." Molly fiddled with the cap of her toothpaste, feeling strangely touched. "Thank you."

A pair of heels clicked over the stones outside, then the door swung open to admit Lucille. "What are you doing here?" Molly snapped.

"Well this is my bathroom too, in case you haven't noticed," Lucille said. She appeared blasé, but her hands were shaking as she put her vanity case down on top of the sink.

"It's just that I finding it better now that we're not talking, that's all," Molly declared. Veronica glanced from one girl to the other with vexation.

"_You're_ not talking to me, to be exact." Lucille lent down to splash water over her face. Molly looked as thought she would have liked to push her head under the tap. "But if you want to be that way, fine. I just won't be able to tell you that Rhiannon's waiting to talk to you in our dormitory - and she's in a right snitch too."

Molly fixed her with a glare. "We're not talking, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Lucille rolled her eyes dramatically. "Well, since we're not talking, it's hardly possible for us to be partners in Herbology or Potions or, well, pretty much any other class we take together. So I hope you don't mind that I've already asked Belmaine Burnett to be my new partner. You really shouldn't. I'd think you'd be well-used to other girls stealing men from under your wand by now."

Veronica stepped in between the two girls to stop the conflict from escalating further. "Come on, you two, you're almost of age. I shouldn't have to tell you to grow up. Anyway, I'm about done here, Mol, if you want to walk back to the common room together to talk to Rhiannon."

"Oh yes, you would be about done," Lucille grumbled.

Veronica swung back to her. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You figure it out," Lucille exhaled with an air of thinly-concealed exasperation.

"Come on," Veronica said bracingly to Molly, who was opening her mouth for a retort, and ushered her out the door. "She's in one of her "poor pitiful me" moods and gets her power from getting a response out of you. I know it's not easy, but it would be better to keep your temper." Molly shrugged.

They walked the rest of the way back to their common room in silence, Molly lost in her thoughts and Veronica not wanted to intrude on them. When they reached the girls' wing Rhiannon gave Veronica a curt nod and slammed the door shut behind the two of them. Veronica went to wait at her desk, leaving the door open.

From the hall came the sound of raised voices. Rhiannon came bounding out, her schoolbag rebounding off her hips and flinging against the stone wall with the force of her temper. A minute or so later Molly emerged. "Well, at least one of my problems is solved. I now have a costume to wear to the ball. Rhiannon isn't going."

"What?" Veronica put down her quill and turned to face her. "But she was so keen on it."

"Well, _someone_ dobbed into Ma and Da that in order to attend, she would have to go with an older date. Needless to say, they weren't too happy about it. So just now at breakfast they sent her a Howler saying that not only couldn't she go, but that they didn't want her costume to go to waste, so she has to give it to me. She bawled me out just now because she thinks that _I_ was the one who wrote to our folks. I would do no such thing. I wasn't happy about her going to the ball-like, especially when she wrote home asking for a costume so soon after we had textbooks bought for us for the new school year, but I would have been there to keep an eye on her. I wouldn't have said anything - honest!"

"I believe you sweets. Calm down."

"Yeah, but Rhiannon doesn't. She's no longer talking to me. Too bad it didn't stop her screaming at me for ten minutes in there. It appears to be "Let's Not Talk To Molly" week for everyone. Except Lucius Malfoy. It would be wonderful if he started celebrating "Let's Not Talk To Molly" week."

"Is he giving you trouble again?"

"No, not really. I think having Amos come up at him all those Saturdays ago at Hogsmeades called him off at bit, but after the ball I'll have that protection removed. When he sees him there with Imelda Page he'll know that he no longer cares for me and that I'm fair game."

"You're not fair game. You've got Thierry to look after you, and me, and the rest of the Quidditch team. And Will's just as much your friend as he is my boyfriend, he won't let anything happen to you. Plus from what I've seen, you handle yourself against him pretty well. You're certainly developing a mean right arm from all our practices."

Molly smiled.

She wasn't smiling during Herbology. In lieu of their usual spot three rows down from the front, Lucille was seated near the back with Belmaine. Molly could sense her trying to catch her eye as she passed by, but she kept her eyes averted. The seat next to Zachary was vacant. She still wasn't very happy with him from yesterday but took it. She couldn't afford to alienate anymore of her friends.

During class Professor Haricot had them working in groups of three, detailing the properties of Translucent Toadstools. Molly and Zachary got put with Blair Zabini. The two boys worked together civilly enough, yet gave each other long, hard looks when they thought Molly wasn't looking. When Zachary went to the tray at the front of the room to get a new species, Molly mustered up her courage enough to confront Blair over it. "What's with you two?" she demanded. "You've been giving each other such looks that I feel as though I might catch fire sitting between the pair of you."

Molly thought that all she would get was a sardonic response for her troubles, but instead Blair replaced his quill in the inkpot and turned to face her. He looked - dare she think it - unguarded. "The teachers and prefects have been playing a game of Assassins," he said. "About half the players have been eliminated. Of course, during meetings they tell us the number eliminated without naming anyone, but we figure it out. And even thought they're not allowed, I suspect your side has an alliance. That, and there's the small matter of your house allowing women onto their team."

"So I suppose you don't think I should be playing, do you?" Molly challenged.

"No, but I don't think anyone else should be playing, for that matter," Blair responded levelly. "It's a barbaric sport that only encourages rivalry and nastiness between the houses."

"Oh," Molly said. It wasn't her opinion, but it made sense. Perhaps she had misjudged him.

"So the ball's this weekend, isn't it?" Blair said.

"Yes," Molly said, surprised. She had never known Blair to say more than necessary.

"I wasn't going to attend, but I was told that as a prefect, it was compulsory for me to do so," Blair continued, rolling his eyes skyward. "The call of duty. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with the point of my wand."

"Oh come on, you're exaggerating," Molly told him. "I'm sure it won't be that bad. Diana and her aunt run a pretty tight ship, and none of the silly junior students will be going. I know of a few third years who have dates, but not that many."

"Well, I suppose you're right," Blair admitted reluctantly. "And I suppose you have some Gryffindor lined up to take."

"Actually, I'm not taking anyone," Molly said without thinking.

"Excellent. Then you can go with me," Blair said abruptly. "Would you?"

Molly was too shocked to do more than nod a response. She sent a fierce look of her own to Zachary over at the toadstool table. This was all his fault.

Blair, having accomplished what he'd needed to, saw no further need for conversation and said nothing the rest of class. While that was fine by Molly, who felt awkward and embarrassed by their earlier exchange, she really hoped he wouldn't be this taciturn durng the Halloween Ball or else it would be a very dull evening indeed. Zachary, she was too cross with to do more than make monosyllablic grunts at his attempts to engage her in idle chit-chat. Her remaining three classes passed in similar fashion. Finally it was lunchtime, when she could return to her room to collect her afternoon books and have some peace and quiet to pull her thoughts together. Storming down the hall, she flung the door to the sixth year girls' dorm open. "Ouch," someone said.

Molly peeked around the door. Huddled in the corner with her arms around her knees was Holly Wood. "What are you doing down there?" she asked.

Holly grinned at her sheepishly. "Well, since Frank Longbottom's been talking for ages about how he's going to the ball, I assumed that he already had a date," she began. "When all along he hasn't. And now he's sitting on my bed in my dorm, and for once he's wearing his school tie, and he has a bunch of flowers - and Molly, he wants to ask _me_ as his date! I can't go back to my dorm every again! Can I sleep on the end of your bed tonight?" she added hopefully.

Holly did not quite get the sympathetic reaction she was hoping for. "Holly Wood, you go back downstairs and tell that poor boy that you'll go as his date _right now_," Molly ordered.

"Fine," Holly pouted, dropping her sorrowful façade. She leapt to her feet and marched out of the room. Several seconds later Veronica arrived outside her door. She gave Holly's departing back a strange long and rose her eyebrow enquiringly at Molly.

"Don't ask," Molly said.

"Don't tell," Veronica responded. "Should I talk to you outside or something, because it seems as though you seem to be getting into an argument with everyone who comes into this room."

"Arguments of which I'm not the instigator, Circe's honour," Molly said, flopping onto her bed with a sigh. "However, I do now have a date to go along with my costume. Blair Zabini."

Veronica's mouth fell open.

"Yes, I have been reduced to taking a Slytherin to the ball," Molly continued. "I'd rather just take myself, to be honest."

"You can't judge a person by their house," Veronica said philosophically. "Though I'm surprised he asked you, to be honest. I thought he would ask someone else-"

"Rich?" Molly cut in acidly.

"-From the same house as him," Veronica finished tiredly. "Look, I appreciate that you've having problems with Lucille, but for Merlin's sake, don't take it out on the rest of us. Her and Thierry and most of the Slytherin's may be from wealthy old-blood families, but you're not the only one who doesn't have money to burn. Arthur's family doesn't have that much of it, and us Vectors, we're okay now that my older has left home and started working, but when we were both at Hogwarts we had to pinch every Sickle. But in case you haven't noticed, money's never really come into our friendship. The only one that it really matters to is _you_."

"Perhaps you should pass that onto Lucille," Molly muttered. "I'm really sorry I've been snappy with you, Muffin. I've just been at the tip of my wand lately, with homework and Quidditch practices and then all this stress about costumes and dates-"

"Well now, that's two less things you've got to worry about," Veronica said briskly. "However, what we do have to worry about is what the blazes are we going to do with the king-sized box of Many-Flavoured Beans my brother sent me by Owl this morning?"

"You're _joking_," Molly breathed.

"No, I'm not," Veronica countered. "Took both his and my owl to carry the bloody thing. I was wondering why Trinket had been missing for nearly a week. _Accio box_!" A large box skidded into the doorway to rest at Veronica's feet. The Gryffindor Keeper was a tall girl, and the box almost reached her knees.

Molly looked at it and made a whimpering noise. "Do you realise that I have to squeeze into Rhiannon's costume - and she's two inches smaller in the waist than I am?" Veronica grinned broadly. "You evil little cow."

"I'll just have to help then, won't I?" Veronica shrugged. "It's too good to waste. Come on now, think of all the starving witches in Africa."

"Well, if it's for charity-" Molly said. She dug her fingers into the box and yanked out a handful. "Ew, tar."

**"G**et it off me, Lucille!"

"Well, if you'd only made sure that you'd varnished the wood and taken all the splinters off it before I'd charmed it on, it wouldn't hurt so much," Lucille gritted her teeth and flicked through the book of spells. It was the night of the Halloween Ball and she was assisting one of the younger boys with his pirate costume, which had turned out horribly wrong. "Outfits take careful planning and consideration. You don't just throw on any old thing and run out the door - particular when it's a ball costume. Ah, here we are. Fake wooden legs - oops, there's no counter charm."

"But it hurts, Lucille." Frank Longbottom sunk onto his bed, his eyepatch askew as he gripped his fake appendage.

"I know it does, sweetie, but I can't find a counter charm for it anywhere in here. Maybe if I tried to tug it off…" Frank's eyes widened in horror and he shrunk away from her. "Er, maybe not. You know, you seem to get hit by a leg-locking curse by Lucius Malfoy at the start of every school year. And Rhiannon Morag tells me that during Transfiguration yesterday, you managed to cast the Tapdancing Hex on yourself. Maybe you and leg charms of any form just don't mix."

"I know, I know," Frank said miserably. Tears were building up in his big blue eyes. "But don't go to Madame Pomfrey! I've gotten so many points off Gryffindor already this semester that most of the seventh year boys have stopped talking to me."

Lucille ran a hand through her hair. Unlike her usual thick wavy brown locks, this for today was charmed into a platinum bob. It had taken her nearly forty-five minutes to get it like that. Unfortunately in anticipation of both the Halloween Ball and the Howlers from home demanding why a wizard and witch's son now had a lion's tail, the Hogwarts students had been forbidden to cast appearance-altering spells upon themselves - on pain of a warning expulsion note and fifty points removed for the student's house. While there was some room for leeway - certain students had ordered special enhancements from costume stores - she somehow doubted that there was any room for misinterpretation in this scenario. "Okay, I'll tell you what," she said eventually. "I'll go up to the senior boys' floor and ask if any of them know the counter charm. In the meantime, don't go anywhere." Frank looked down at his leg then back up at her skeptically. "Alright, so you're not _exactly_ going anywhere. But just try to relax in the meantime, okay? I'll be back soon." She closed the door behind her and raced up the stairs as quickly as her boots would allow.

With the lateness of the month the clocks had been set back an hour and the large bay window at the top of the boys' wing was already darkened, little spots of stars peppering the sky. Lucille stopped and looked around, deciding which room to try first. A door across the landing was flung open and a vacuum of noise exploded. The boys evidently had a Silencing Ward in place. Winston Shacklebolt staggered out on cloven feet, dry-retching. Lucille marched up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Where's Thierry?"

"What?" Winston inclined his horned head towards her. She could smell the Firewhiskey on his breath.

"Where's Thierry?" Lucille strained to make herself understood with the cacophony emerging from the fifth year boys dorm. Several decades worth of fifth year boys, by the sound of things.

"Hairy?" Winston beamed proudly down at her. "Yeah, it took me ages to make the right combination of Fake Werewolf Toothwrencher. Pretty convincing, don't you think? And as for the legs, well, _they_ were another story-"

"THIERRY DELACOUR!" Lucille screamed into his ear.

"Alright, alright, keep your skirt on," Winston grumbled, clutching his head theatrically. "He's in there." A pitcher full of Butterbeer came sailing between them and combusted against the wall. "Er, somewhere," he amended. "Think I better go in there with you." He scooped his arms around Lucille and dumped her onto his shoulder. "You'd best be careful, Missy. I'm a Satyr and I don't think I can keep my animal instincts under control." He gave her a playful whack on the arse and she yelped.

The fifth year boys' dormitory would make the owlery look like a clean, civilised place. Chairs had been tumbled over and books thrown to the floor. Those stacks that remained perched atop of desks had mugs of Butterbeer, shots of Manticore Green Label vodka and various other poisons balanced precariously on top. And it wasn't just the boys doing their OWL year inside. The two senior years, evidently deciding that they didn't want to clean up their own bedrooms come the morning after, had made themselves at home there. Mark Appleby, Ben Thomas and another seventh year whose name she couldn't remember sat underneath one window, playing a very drunken version of Exploding Snap. Roy Connolly was feeding Firewhiskey to Belmaine Burnett, whose head was half-detached from his head. Winston put her down on. "Any of youse lot seen Thierry?" he roared. Roy accidentally spilt Firewhiskey on Belmaine's ruffle. Both collapsed in loud guffaws.

Lucille raised her fingers to her lips and let out a piercing whistle. The boys stopped, shocked at the sudden high-pitched noise, then even more shocked when they realised whom it had issued from.

"Why do yer want me?"

"Yeah?" Roy stepped forward and puffed out his chest. "Why not me?"

"Outside," Thierry said, giving Lucille's elbow a push. As they left she heard the clatter of Winston's hooves as he attempted to do a drunken Scottish jig, much to the amusement of the other boys. "Weell, what eez eet? Does ma fathaire make enough money _pour_ yer ter talk ter me now?"

For once Lucille managed not to rise. "It's Frank Longbottom," she said. "I Morphed his leg with a wooden pirate's leg, only he forgot to take the splinters out of it beforehand and now it's hurting him and I can't get it off."

Thierry swore. "Yer fortunate I deed not start drinkin' already," he said, glowering down at her. "I der not know ze counter charm off ze top of ma 'ead, _mais_ eef I look at ze originale, I may be able ter figure eet out. Zis may take a while."

"Oi Delacour, get your kit on and start drinking with us!" Belmaine cried.

"_Pas maintenant_," Thierry said. "I 'ave some business to attend ter downstairds." The boys started whistling and cheering. "An' ma Firewhiskey bettair steel be zere when I come back." He strode off.

The remaining senior boys gave each other startled looks. "Er, I think that was his Firewhiskey we started on at five oclock," Winston ventured.

"Oops," Roy said.

"You two are such fucking pansies," Belmaine said lightly. "Just get him drunk on something else and tell him he drank the bottle all by himself but was too pissed to remember."

The other two stared at him incrediously. "Are you off your fucking rocker, mate?" Roy demanded. "Have you ever tried getting Thierry Delacour drunk? Don't know whether it's because of that blimey Veela constitution of his or what, but it just don't happen. I mean, _I'm_ Irish, and he can bloody near drink me under the table."

"I saw him drinking with Hagrid one afternoon," Winston ventured.

"Oh dear god," Belmaine blanched.

"Yeah, you know what this is, mate?" Roy said. "This is us up shit creek without a fucking wand, mate."

"Oi, watch your language, you bloody coarse Leprechaun," Winston said, clipping him over the air. "We've got company present."

"That we do," Belmaine said, giving Lucille an appreciative look-over. "Aye, we could give him her!"

"What?" Lucille shrieked.

"Yeah, he has proven himself to be a leg man," Roy agreed enthusiastically. "And this one's a blond to boot."

"Oh, grow up, the lot of you," Lucille snapped. "I'm not yours to give anyway."

There was the sound of thumping and cursing from the hallway. Algernon Longbottom appeared, dragging a large, battered-looking suitcase up with him. "Oi, listen up, youse lot," he puffed. "I managed to fit two first years into this baby. Get pretty docile after a Butterbeer or two, don't they?" He hefted the suitcase into one corner and flopped onto his bed. "Think I need a drink meself actually. Fuck, I'm bored."

The three boys standing looked at the discarded suitcase. They looked at Lucille. They looked at each other. They grinned wolfishly.

**"A**_lors_ Monsieur Longbottom, yer 'ave a wooden leg?" Thierry poked his head through the doorway of the third year boy's dorm, grinning in a friendly matter. Frank nodded up at him miserably. "Ah, no matter. Eets bettair zan 'avin' a wooden _tete_. Unlike zat fool _frere_ of yers, 'e definitely 'as one." Frank giggled. "Now, what can I do fer yer?"

"It's me leg," Frank said. "Lucille cast the Morphing Charm on it - and she did a real good job like - but I forgot to take the splinters off first, and now they're digging into me and I'm having a real time getting it off."

"_Pah_. Women. What do zey know?" Thierry winked at him. "Now, lets 'ave a look. Ah, _c'est aussi simple_. All I 'ave ter do eez reconjugate' ze tense an' alter ze infix _et voila_!" He waved his wand with a grand flourish and Frank gazed in wonder at his now splinter-free leg. "_Regardes, c'est parfait_." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candy. "'Ere, 'ave zis. Eet weel put 'air on yer chest."

"I don't need a lolly," Frank said indignantly. "I'm not a first year."

"Can I 'ave it back zen?"

"No," said Frank, peeling off the wrapper and popping it into his mouth.

"_Alors_, ma work 'ere eez done zen," Thierry said, sliding his wand back into his pocket. "Now eet should be fine, joost don' go close ter any fires. 'Ave a good night Monsier Longbottom."

As he winded his way back up the stairwell to the senior boys' floor, Thierry smiled to himself. Evidently, as Frank Longbottom was too young to go to the ball without a more senior date, the fuss was over a woman. Poor boy. Any girl that expected you to alter your appearance significantly, even if it was just for one night, wasn't worth it. There was noise coming from the seventh years' dorm, loud noise. Those idiots hadn't replaced the Silencing Ward.

The party appeared to be in full swing. Godfrey Gryffindor - or Mark Appleby - was doing an Irish jig over the top of a prone Ben Thomas, the Muggleborn student snoring away blissfully on the dorm floor. Algernon Longbottom was perched on suitcase and Belmaine Burnett and Roy Connolly were knocking back Goblin Screwers without any apparent restraint.

"Look, Cam," Winston Shacklebolt had his arm around - and in his drunken state was leaning heavily against - Cameron Bell, who was wearing a tight top with a short red, white and blue pleated skirt, "you're wasting your time, mate. No one is ever going to get your costume."

"Yeah? Well the people who actually bother coming to Muggle Studies will," the reserve Keeper shot back indignantly. "That American Sports lecture made all of the crap we have to learn for OWLs worthwhile, I tell you."

"Yeah, but all I'm saying is that sometimes you're too bloody clever for your own good," Winston slurred. He took a step forward and almost lost his footing on the beer-slicked floor, his hooves doing a sort of tap-dance as he struggled to keep his balance. "What's the point of a joke if no one gets it? The only person who's ever fucking _going_ to get it is Professor Cantrell, and I'm sure that's _not_ what he wanted us to get out of Muggle Studies."

"Aw, how would you bloody well know?" Cameron challenged him. "You never go there!"

"Heads up, Delacour's back," Roy nudged Belmaine. The two boys scooted in front of what had been converted into the drink's cabinet, shame-faced grins plastered on their faces. "Thierry!"

"Our best friend!" Belmaine added.

Thierry looked from one beaming boy to the other. Suspicion darkened his brow. "Where's ma Firewhiskey?"

Roy and Belmaine shared glances. Winston and Cameron shushed up. Algernon Longbottom, oblivious to the scene unfolding around him, continued to sit on his suitcase and quietly guzzle Butterbeer. "Well, you see, Thierry," Mark began, "we were drinking, then we ran out. And we needed Firewhiskey to mix Goblin Screwers. So we thought, "well, Thierry's such a capital bloke, he won't mind if we have a few nips of it." You don't mind, do you?"

Thierry looked from one housemate to another. All beamed innocently back at him, except Longbottom, who continued to knock back Butterbeer. "Er, I suppose not," he said grudgingly. "Joost geeve me what's left an' I weel finish eet off mah-self."

"Er, Thierry," Roy spoke up, "the thing is that we intended to save half for you all along. However, since _your_ half was at the top of the bottle, we had to drink it in order to get to _our_ half."

"WHAT?" Thierry roared.

"But we got a little something for you," Belmaine interceded hurriedly. "Just a little token of how appreciation. It's _almost_ equal to a bottle of Firewhiskey. Say something, Blondie." He went over to the suitcase Longbottom was sitting on and gave it a kick. The suitcase yelped. "Whoops, my foot slipped. Didn't mean to kick you that hard."

Blondie? Thierry thought back and realised that Lucille hadn't left the room after him. A horrified understanding dawned on his face. "Git out of ma way!" he cried, rushing over to open the case.

Out of the opened wafted the scent of stale socks. A decidedly green Lucille sat up and gulped in fresh air. "I never want to look at another pair of socks for as long as I live," she said weakly, leaning against Thierry. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Yer don' stuff Gryffindor girls into suitcases!" the Frenchman turned furiously on his housemates. "Yer stuff Slytherin boys down ze toilets, but Gryffindor girls, nevair!"

"Oh, but we put plenty of straw in there with her," Winston said. His inebriation was beginning to wear off and he now looked a little shame-faced. "We thought it would be a good laugh, didn't we, lads?"

"_You_ thought it would be a good laugh," Cameron said pointedly. "_I_ was out of the room."

"Yer put straw een _avec_ 'ampsters!" Thierry yelled. "Zis ees _une fille_! Are yer _tout_ stupid or sometheeng?"

"Er, Thierry?" Lucille said feebly, tugging at his shirt.

Thierry looked down at her. He noticed how pale she was, plus the way she had her lips clamped together. He leapt to his feet and raced her over to the open window just in time.

"See?" Roy turned triumphantly to Algernon. "You fucking stink, Longbottom."

"Thank you," Lucille said groggily, wiping off her face with the towel Cameron Bell handed to her. She looked up at him. "You're a cheerleader!"

"Whoo-hoo! Own it! Fucking own it!" Cameron punched his fist in the air and did a victory dance around the room, walloping Winston in the back. "Did you all hear that! _She_ got it, and she's not even a Muggleborn! Take that and shove it down your throats! You're my man, Lucille!" Thierry, who had one arm wrapped protectively around her waist, gave him a scornful look. "Er, in a manner of speaking," he amended himself sheepishly.

"_Too_ much Firewhiskey," Thierry said philosophically, closing the window and pulling Lucille away.

"Here, this will help to steady your stomach," Winston said, slipping a Goblin Screwer into her hand.

"I'm not drinking that!" Lucille said with an indignant look. "I'm not from the Hogsmeades slums. That's no drink for a lady. _I'd_ like a Veela Slipper, with extra Rosehip Schnapps and Fairydust."

"Ooh, the lady knows her drinks," Winston drawled. "One Veela Slipper coming up."

"You can't 'ave zat," Thierry hissed once Winston had clattered away. "Yer joost threw up."

"You're right; he hasn't put any ice in it!" Lucille said, scandalised. "Winston, on the rocks, please!"

"Lucille, zat's no way for a lady to behave," Thierry told her.

"Yeah, well, I'm getting a bit sick of people telling me how I should or shouldn't behave," Lucille said, shaking off his hand in a feisty manner. "I'm going to live it up for once. I won't be able to do that much longer, you know. Wait, how many grams of fat does this have in it?" she asked as Winston handed her the cocktail. "Oh, who cares? I'll deal with it later. Bottoms up." The boys applauded as she downed the glass.

Thierry shook his head. "Yer goin' ter be legless."

"In this dress? I hope not," she said coquettishly, glancing down at the red shift that barely surpassed her thighs. "Mark, do you think I'm legless?"

"Certainly not," he said, winking at her. Thierry scowled.

"Oh, that reminds me," she said, stabbing his chest with a fingernail enamelled in a pearly white. "Actually, I have something that I want to show you. Will you come back to my room with me?"

The boys made low whistling noises. Thierry gave the nearest one a slight push, who in his drunkeness staggered backwards and almost lost his balance. "_Exactement quoi_?" he asked.

He soon wished he hadn't. "It's a surprise," Lucille giggled. The cocktail was affecting her quickly and she didn't seem aware of how her innocuous phrases could be turned by the drunken, dirty mind of a teenaged boy. Sure enough, Belmaine and Roy both rose their eyebrows at each other and grinned.

"Outside," he said, touching her elbow. The contact spurred her into movement and she left, snatching up his hand so that he was half-dragged along with her.

"Alright, dude," Roy said, grabbing his arm as he walked past. "After what Shacklebolt put in that thing, tonight you're going to get laid - or barfed on."

"_Va-t-en_," Thierry shrugged him off.

"Well, I never!" he heard Belmaine say indignantly behind him. "I Illusioned my head so that it looks like its half-off my neck, and he didn't say a bloody word!"

Once in the hall Lucille eased her grip so that it was now he who was holding her hand. Her small, white hand rested in his larger, darker palm like a half-tame animal that might bolt at any minute, at the slightest of movement. That the two of them were now alone seemed to have shocked some of her earlier bravado out of her. They were silent the rest of the way to the girls' dorm.

The sixth year girls' room looked like the backstage area of a show. Garish costumes had been flung over beds and peeked out of drawers that threatened to tumble out of their chests and tubes of cosmetics lay scattered across the cabinets. Thierry tripped over an upturned heel and swore.

"Looks like the senior boys aren't the only ones who have been drinking," Lucille commented, spying the empty bottle of Lilywine on one chest. It wasn't hard to pick her bed, the one with all the Beatles posters and newspaper clippings pasted above it. He had never felt so comforted by the sight of those four beaming faces, a testament to how the girl had not yet been completely done over by pureblood mania. She walked over it and bent over to begin to rummage through the chest at the foot of it. Thierry saw a sliver of baby blue underwear peeking up from beneath her hem. He didn't look away quite quickly enough to prevent the memory being branded on his brain. "If they haven't got into my Spiced Honeycomb Liqueur, I'll be able to offer your something. Aha!" She pulled a bottle triumphantly from her chest. "Would you like a finger?"

_Why, you're being very nice to me_, Thierry thought sourly. _My father must indeed be making enough money for you to talk to me again, despite my unfortunate half-bred heritage_. He shrugged off his eternal dialogue. Lucille was making an effort. _Alright, cherie. As long as you behave yourself, I'll play nice. I won't start anything. But have a care that you don't, because I may well just finish it._ "No thank yer," he said. "I steel 'ave ter cast a 'Air-Lengthening Charm, an' I can't do zat as peesed as a merman."

Lucille's face fell. That's when he realised that she wasn't offering him a drink, but a chance to rescue their friendship. She cast the Scourgifying Charm on one of the glasses littered around the Lilywine bottle and poured a finger into it. "Please?" she said. "It's special Spiced Honeycomb Liqueur from the south of France." Her hazel eyes rose up. Met his. "I happen to like French things," she added huskily.

Thierry took the proffered glass. Their fingers crackled together. "Me too," he said. "Especially French things that have been diluted." He didn't take his eyes off her.

Lucille stayed locked. _Oh Merlin, we're doing - what is it that the Ravenclaws call it - eyefucking? We're eyefucking_, she realised. She didn't want to be the one to look away, but one of them had to. Or did they? Then other thoughts began to push through the sensation of being undressed, caressed by a pair of dark eyes. Her father. Her family. Her duty. Her date. "Your present!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as if he had just thought of it. "I haven't given it to you yet. It's what I brought you here for, after all."

_Is it?_ Thierry thought, but because beyond her smile she was pale and shaking, he let his thoughts remain thoughts. "But you're all out," she realised, giving his glass a mournful look. "I'm a terrible hostess. A second finger? Here, this will get you up near where I am. I'll have one too. Bottoms up."

"Ah, yes," Thierry said. Lucille had bent over the chest and was rummaging around for something. "Bottoms up." He loosened his tie awkwardly.

"Here it is," Lucille's head thankfully re-emerged. She was clutching a folded piece of fabric. She crossed the room to him. "Well, hold out your hand, _mon garcon_. It won't bite you." The head-and-hip tilt, the cheeky smile was in place, but her voice was high with nerves. _You don't fool me_, he thought. _You've never fooled me_.

He held out his hand. He unfolded the gift. Nestled inside was a band of gold with scarlet stitching on top spelling out the word _captain_. "What is this?"

"It's a captain's armband," Lucille explained, sliding her weight from one foot to another. "All the Muggle footballers wear them. I set out about to make it for you over the holidays, as soon as I knew that you had the captaincy, but the thing is, I didn't know how to sew. I'll understand it if you don't like it. It _is_ rather amateurish."

"_C'est parfait_," Thierry said, sliding the band into his pocket. "I never thought that you took an interest in my Quidditch. _Je l'aime_. _Merci_."

"Surprise," Lucille smiled dryly. She slid her hands into the hip pockets of her dress and bit her lip self-consciously. "Another drink?"

"No thank you," Thierry said. "And you've had too much yourself."

Lucille was watching him oddly. "You don't always speak with an accent, you know."

"_Vraiment_?" Surprise registered on Thierry's face. "_Je n'en ai pas su_."

"Maybe it's because you try too hard," Lucille continued. "If you just relax and let it come to you, it will." She looked up at him. "We're actually getting along. I didn't realise it could be so easy."

"There's no reason why it should be anything else." His fingers threaded through hers.

Lucille ran a hand through her short blonde 'do and exhaled raggedly. "I wish we didn't have to go to the ball tonight," she burst out. "I want to stay here. I want the rest of the world not to exist. That nothing beyond that wall was real." Her eyes were brimming over.

"Then stay here," Thierry said soothingly. He had never seen her this openly agitated before. "Forget the ball. We don't have to go. We have Spiced Honeycomb Liqueur. What more do we need?"

Lucille gave a watery laugh at his weak joke. "I'm a Black. I have responsibilities to attend to. Duties. I'm sorry, Thierry."

"Oh, really?" he shot back, some of his familiar irritation beginning to return. "_Et_ what about yer duty ter yerself? Do yer git a look-een? Does anyone een yer family care what yer want?"

Lucille smiled sadly at him. "I'm the least of my priorities. Have a good night, Thierry."


	16. All Hallow's Night

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

Author's Note: I'm sorry my last chapter did not contain author's notes. The editor was screwed up and I couldn't put them in. So the usual disclaimer applies for both this and the preceding chapter. Apologies for making you wait for the ball scene, but chapter fifteen had reached a natural closure and was already near 7,000 words, so I didn't want to attempt to crunch too much in. Hopefully you find the actual ball chapter worth the wait.

Requests for minor characters have been noted. And thank you to both Heather and the people at FictionAlley for the costume ideas.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. One of the songs performed at the Halloween Ball, "The People Who'll Need You," is actually mine (as are the Familiars!), so if you want to use it in your own fic, I can't imagine why but please credit me. So admin, please don't delete this due to copyright issues. I can get signed permission from myself if necessary ;-) Likewise for a few other snatches of lyrics that are obviously rooted in the wizard world. And the other, "Eight Days A Week," belongs to the mighty Beatles.

**Chapter Sixteen: All Hallow's Night**

**A**gainst the stars speckled in the night sky, two figures were silhouetted. The woman was not young, but she held herself as stiff and straight as a poker. The man was even older than she, yet he too moved with a buoyancy and lightness upon his feet.

"I'm not convinced that we made the right decision allowing the prefects to hire this band, Albus. Don't you consider the lyrics to be a little, well, suggestive?"

"Oh, senior students will do what senior students do, Minerva," the other said airily. "I hardly think a popular group will be the deciding factor on whether or not they save themselves for their husbands or wives."

"True, but I just don't like the idea of setting the scene for that kind of behaviour," the woman said resignedly. "But I suppose you're right, as usual."

"Now we both know that isn't true," her companion told her. "Look, a wisp of cloud is covering the moon."

"**T**ighter, just a bit tighter, damn you," Molly muttered, straining to ease herself into her ankle-length dress. "Come on, don't tell me I gave up chocolate treacle three times this week for you to _not zip up properly_." She held her breath and in one desperate tug pulled her zipper up to its finish line. "Now if I plan not to eat or breathe at all this evening, this should be perfect." Sucking in short, shallow gasps of air, she walked over the full-length mirror in the centre of the room. "Well, you've made my stomach look flat, which is a bloody miracle. But what will we do without ourselves at dinnertime, I wonder?" And bedtime. Most of her roommates had started drinking already, and she feverishly hoped that either Clarice Appleby or Zorah Brocklehurst would have enough of a grip on sobriety to help her get out of the contraption come midnight. Blair Zabini being amused by the request was unlikely, and she was just as unlikely to appeal for his aid. She wasn't that kind of witch.

Which led her to wonder, _why_ exactly had the Slytherin boy asked her to the ball? They barely talked, but from what she had seen of him, he barely talked to most girls - and the unceremonious way in which he had asked her to accompany him would lend itself to a perception of a general lack of experience when it came to girls. What did she know about him really? Other than his being a prefect, and hating Quidditch, precious little. _Well, at least this way you'll be able to ask him about himself, and have a better basis for conversation than with someone you already knew reasonably well, _she told herself firmly.

She also knew that like herself he was a pureblood, but not from a family as rich and prestigious as the Delacours or Blacks or Malfoys. That, and his position as a prefect, made it so that he had little room to misbehave. In fact, the worst she had seen direct at herself or any other student were snide but ultimately harmless comments. And he had offered to sit with her and the other Gryffindors, which showed that he seemed to have her ease in mind.

While she would prefer to go with someone from her own house or a certain Hufflepuff Quidditch captain, she had to concede that if forced to go with a Slytherin, him and Nicholas Hicks would be her first two choices. Her _real_ first choice would be to go with Amos Diggory, but that was beyond her control. She could only hope that after an evening with Imelda Page, he would realise what a simpleton she was and be ready to move onto someone who if not necessarily good enough for him - such was her level of infatuation that she did not consider herself to be on his level - was at least closer to being good enough for him than that simpering ninny.

_What does he see in her? _she huffed inwardly as she lowered herself onto the edge of her bed and carefully bent down to buckle up her rose-hued shoes. _What on earth could he possible have in common with her? What has she got that I haven't got? _The answer came to her unwillingly. _At the moment, Amos' attention._ She was so flustered by that last thought that she snapped the strap off her left shoe and released a torrent of swearwords.

"Have the goblins at Gringotts got your tongue?" someone asked. "Or should I say, Thierry, because you sound more like him than yourself at the moment."

Molly looked up. Emotions flooded through her, conflicting ones. She had seen how drawn and thin Lucille had become the last few weeks, had heard her creep back into their dorm at night after thrusting her head into the books to the wee hours of the morning - long after everyone else had gone to bed - and felt accordingly concerned. Yet she was still aching from Lucille's jibe about her weight. It would have been hurtful coming from Lucius Malfoy or someone else she had no care to build up cordial relationships with, but from one she still thought of as a friend, it was brutally devastating. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.

"Veronica told me about how Rhiannon lost her temper with you because she thought you were responsible for the Howler," Lucille continued. Molly looked up at her, surprised. "I know that you didn't send it. Personally I think it's her fault more than anyone else's for not being honest with your parents when she's old enough to know that they wouldn't approve of her attending with someone older, but sometimes it's difficult to see the finer shades of grey at thirteen." She smiled wryly. "And at sixteen."

Molly continued the pointless task of buckling up her now-ruined shoe.

"Well, if you're still not talking to me, I can talk to myself," Lucille declared, sinking onto the end of her bed. "As Thierry has often brought to my attention, I don't make a habit of paying any notice to what the other person is saying, so it won't make a terribly huge difference to usual. If you ask me - which I know you're not going to, but I'll pretend that you have anyway - you're wasting your time moping over Amos Diggory. You should concentrate on having a good time with Blair Zabini instead. And you should be flattered. From what little I do know of him, which is still a great deal more than you, he doesn't pay much attention to girls. Which makes you kind of special. And at least you got to choose your date, or choose whether to have one or not. In fact, your parents would probably prefer it if you didn't take anyone." Her fingers came up to toy with the ends of her blond bob. "If you're not going to respond, I may as well talk to myself in French. My relatives tell me that I understand it well but my grammar isn't very good, and producing the language yourself in either a spoken or written form forces you to examine your sentence structure more than passively absorbing anything."

"Lucille, due to this corset, I have a limited amount of available oxygen for this evening," Molly told her. "So I'd rather not waste it. If this has a point, tell me now."

"Well, now that you've actually started talking to me for a change, it would be a shame to make you stop." Lucille took the bottle of Spiced Honeycomb Liqueur from off the top of her cabinet and poured herself a finger. Molly envied the thoughtless elegance, the manner in which she settled back on her bed and took a swill of the drink - until she noticed how her hand trembled. "I'd rather let you continue."

Molly eyed Lucille. Lucille stared unblinkingly back. Molly exhaled as much as her corset permitted and abandoned her shoes. "What you said to me last week was unforgivable," she said finally. "Coming from Lucius Malfoy or one of his cronies, it would have been bad enough, but from someone who's supposed to be my friend - well, I just don't expect to be attacked that way by someone who I have the history with that I have with you. I've opened myself to you, Lucille. I've left myself vulnerable in many ways. There are things about me that only you know - and when you said what you said to me last week, you threw it back in my face." Her voice had pitched and she forced it back to its customary levels. "You hurt me, Lucille. Badly."

"I'm sorry," Lucille said simply.

Molly gaped at her. She had expected more of the other girl's recently-acquired chill, or an insistence that Molly needed to hear the truth and that she was only telling her for her own good. What astounded her was not so much the apology in itself, but the sincerity and readiness of it.

"I'm sorry," Lucille said again. "I don't even know why I said it. It's not even what I think. I've always thought that you look adorable. I was listening to some people who I really should have tried harder not to. I haven't been myself this last while."

"Well, that's the understatement of the century," Molly said huskily.

"I haven't been myself - and it's cost me," Lucille continued. She tipped back her head and drained the glass. Molly frowned at this, but said nothing. "I've been trying to become something that it would make it easier for me to become, but I couldn't do it. No matter my bloodline, I could never fully become a part of that world. And now I've lost the world that I was a part of - and I've disappointed my father. He wanted me to do our good name proud - and I just couldn't do it. I've failed him."

"It depends what your definition of doing your family proud," Molly said. Her anger was still there, but it was being pushed to the side to make room for compassion and concern. Holding grudges had never been a forte of hers, and now her desire to tear shreds from Lucille was warring against her urge to take the girl in her arms.

Molly's words seemed to awaken Lucille from a trance, and she gave herself a visible shake. Her eyes didn't harden exactly, but Molly had the sense that a curtain had been pulled over them. When Lucille spoke again, she had retained some of her distant nature. "What I'm trying to say is that I treated you and everyone else appallingly, and I know that it's too late for our friendship, but I really hope-" she took a deep breath and made as if to scrub a hand over her face, but remembered her make-up in time "-well, things with me next term will be very, very different. Because of…external circumstances…we won't be able to have the friendship that we used to. Not that I want it to end, but it just won't be possible anymore. I just want your last memory of me to be of something positive, not what I've allowed myself to become." Her last sentence ended on a pleading note.

"Lucille, honey," Molly crossed the room and sat beside her, taking her hand, "if there's something you want to talk about, I'm here."

"It's nothing, Molly," Lucille said, but her averted gaze screamed of the lie. "Really, it's nothing. I'll be fine tomorrow. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't fix. It's nothing. Just forget about me. Enjoy the ball. It's really nothing." She seemed to be talking to herself more than Molly. "Right. You need shoes. You can wear my butterscotch boots. We're the same size."

"Really? But those boots are your pride and joy! You snap at the house elves if they even look at them funny."

"Well, they shouldn't have to suffer simply because I've chosen to wear these instead." Lucille gestured down towards her pair of white boots with a rounded toe, thankfully without a heel. Thankfully, because of the way she swayed on her feet as she crossed over to her closet and began to rummage inside. For not the first time Molly wondered exactly how much her friend had drunk. "Go on, put them on. Otherwise they'll never forgive me for leaving them behind."

The boots were a little snug around the leg - Molly had more developed calf muscles than Lucille - but otherwise were a sound fit. She was raising her head to say "thank you" when Rhiannon entered the room. "Your dates waiting," she said unceremoniously. "He's that Slytherin prefect, Blair Zabini. Funny, and I was half expecting it to be Nate Erklewhile. At least you didn't steal _my_ date."

"Rhiannon, Molly didn't tell your parents that you needed an older date to go to the ball," Lucille spoke up. "I don't know who did, but it wasn't her. So whoever you plan to get angry with, it shouldn't be her."

Rhiannon gave Lucille a searching stare. "Did you tell my parents?" Lucille shook her head in a denial. "So if you didn't do it, and you don't know who did, how do you know that it wasn't her?"

"Because she said so, and that's good enough for me," Lucille said firmly. Molly's throat constricted at this show of loyalty. "And now that you no longer have anyone to blame, perhaps you have the ability to realise that you were the one who was dishonest with your parents and you knew you were doing something wrong, but didn't tell them. If Molly had already made a costume, yours would have gone to waste, and your parents would have been angrier still. So really you should be thanking her." Rhiannon scowled and stormed out the room.

"Don't worry, it's just sister stuff," Molly said briskly, placing her fake ruby and gold crown on top of her head and picking up her clutch. "She's at the age where she's capable of seeing reason but it's easier just to believe that the world is against her." She turned and faced her friend. The new shortened haircut made the other girl look more exposed, vulnerable. "If ever you need to talk me, I'm here."

"Thank you," Lucille said. "I'll remember that." Molly knew that her offer would not be taken up. "I'm about done here. I'll walk you to the common room. You look great, Molly."

"You too," Molly said, stretching her lips into a small smile.

Arthur and Thierry were in the common room. Arthur had shortened his hair to a brown bowl cut and was savouring what appeared to be a much-needed Butterbeer. Thierry had collapsed in one of the chairs in front of the fire and sat cradling a bottle of Firewhiskey. Molly gave them both a wave and continued outside.

Blair sat on the top stair, underneath the watchful gaze of the Fat Lady. Jack O' Lanterns were bobbing around in the portraits surrounding hers and cobwebs hung in the air. The Slytherin prefect looked up at her with a woefully wry expression. "I look completely out of place here."

"You look fine," Molly assured him. "Whoever you are."

"_Je te presente Monsieur Malecrit_." Blair stood and whipped off his plush, plumed hat with a self-mocking flourish. "One of the worst playwrights of all time. He once wrote a work entitled, "_Helas, j'ai Transfiguré mes pieds_"." It means, "Alas, I have transfigured my feet" in French. Don't ever read his works. I've had suicidal moments doing so."

Molly giggled. Perhaps tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

Back in the common room Lucille gave a squeal of joy and bounded over to Arthur. "You're dressed as John Lennon! I don't believe it!"

Arthur looked down at her and winked. "He's my favourite Beatle."

"He's everyone's favourite," Lucille declared stoutly. "And I'm going as Twiggy, the Muggle supermodel." She twirled around proudly. "I say, this is a real moment in the history of Muggle pop culture. John Lennon and Twiggy - together. I think this calls for a photo."

"Righto," Arthur said. "Could you do the honours, Thierry?"

Lucille had not noticed him sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace until he poked his head around the back of it. "I am not movin' unteel I 'ave drunk _tout_ zis Firewhiskey," he proclaimed. "Eef yer want a photo, yer weel 'ave to come over ter me."

"Well, we can walk over in front of him and get him to take the picture seated," Arthur said to divert an eventual argument. "It's not too much trouble, is it?"

"None at all," Lucille said, although she looked vaguely uncomfortable having to go so close to the Quidditch captain. Not that there was anything unusual about that. The two had a peculiar kind of chemistry. "In fact, a photographer once told me that girls take better pictures when someone's looking up at them. It makes their longs look longer."

Arthur privately thought that if Lucille's legs looked any longer, they'd be sticking out of her forehead. He slipped his arm around her as Thierry broke the connection between his lips and the bottle of Firewhiskey long enough to take the snap. "Not bad," he said, passing it to Arthur.

In the picture Arthur and a Lucille who barely came up to his chin gave it each good-natured bunny ears. "Would the two of you like a picture together?" he offered.

Both Thierry and Lucille hesitated. "We're not exactly in costumes that complement each other," the latter said eventually, giving Thierry's outfit a cursory once-over. He was dressed as D'Artagnan, a character from a book he and Arthur had been required to read for Muggle Studies last year.

Thierry gave her a steady look. "It doesn't matter."

"There's no room for me."

"There is now," Thierry said, snaking his arm around Lucille's waist and pulling her onto his lap. The sudden movement made her shriek. "I'll always make room for you, Lucille."

As both Thierry and Diana had pointed out to him, Arthur's people skills often left a lot to be desired. He however had the impression that if he spoke, he would be intruding upon something very private going on between Thierry and Lucille. He didn't do a count-off of any form for fear of disturbing them. He flashed his camera and waited for the photo to develop.

"What does it look like?" Lucille demanded.

Arthur regarded the emerging photo. The brown-tinted forms of Thierry and Lucille made their costumes appear less diverse, made them look more like a couple. The two-dimensional Thierry pounced on his counterpart, bundling her into his arms for a hungry kiss. Lucille slapped him, then pulled him into a mouth-clencher of her own.

The three-dimensional pair were looking up at him expectantly. "It didn't turn out," he lied, stuffing the photo into the back pocket of his brown suit. Maybe it would take a photo to get them to see the truth. But tonight, with both taking different partners to the ball, was not the time for it.

The door to the common room swung open, admitting Herbie Jordan. The room's original three occupants gaped it him. He was dressed as a Golden Snitch and wobbled rather than walked, his arms and legs sticking out of the giant golden ball that enclosed him at awkward angles. "A Catherine Lee's here to see you," he puffed. "And Clarice Appleby's boyfriend. Shit, this thing is hot."

Lucille, who normally never missed the chance to blast Herbie for his liberal usage of profanities, instead turned on Thierry. "You made your _date_ walk here?"

"Weell, I offered ter meet 'er outside 'er common area, _mais_ she said zat eet eez no mattaire, _et_ 'ere eez closaire," Thierry shrugged but still looked slightly shame-faced, which was a huge accomplishment. Lucille snorted. "Besides, Sylvian Davies was goin' weeth 'er."

"But still-" Lucille persisted.

"Hey, can someone tell Clarice that Davies has arrived?" Herbie cut in impatiently. "I ain't going up another flight of stairs in this."

"I'll go and get her," Lucille offered, dragging herself off Thierry's lap. Arthur suspected that she wanted to make herself scarce for the entry of Thierry's date. Thierry's eyes followed her out of the room. _One girl on his lap, another to the ball. Such is the life of Thierry Delacour_, Arthur thought dryly. "Just invite them in," he suggested. "Something tells me that not everyone will end up where they're supposed to be tonight." He realised that he had just spoken like this in front of a third year and felt his ears go pink.

"No worries, man," Herbie said easily. "I can dream. The way I look at it, I've got it made, because the old ones want a piece of fresh meat, and the young ones don't want to be corrupted by you old geezers."

"Thierry, let them in," Arthur said desperately.

Thierry's date was wearing a crown of leaves and berries and a strapless ivory dress with more leaves entwined around the bodice and threaded through the bones of her corset. Arthur felt himself gaping at her. She was much prettier than in her Ravenclaw robes. "I'm the May Queen," she explained. "But my real name's Catherine."

"An' zis eez ma friend Arthur," Thierry remembered his manners. Arthur leant forward to shake her hand. "'E eez ze 'ead boy."

"I know who you are," Catherine beamed up at him. Behind them Herbie straightened hopefully, clearly wanting to be introduced. "So it's your responsibility to try and keep this rabble in order, I take it?"

"I can try," Arthur said dryly. Catherine laughed. She really was a rather nice girl, although he somehow doubted that Lucille would see that. "Is there a mirror anywhere in here? I just want to check if my laurel's on straight."

"That stairwell, and just go into any room," Arthur directed her. "The first years won't mind if you duck in just for a moment." _And you'll be more likely to avoid Lucille that way_, he added silently.

As soon as she left Arthur turned to Thierry. "Don't," he warned. "I know what you're thinking, but just don't."

"Arthur, I promise I weell be on ma best behaviour," Thierry swore.

"Well, considering _who_ that promise is coming from, forgive me if I feel less than assured," Arthur muttered. He was rendered correct when Thierry's grin widened.

"Ah, there you-" Sylvian broke off as his girlfriend came down the stairs. "What the blazes are you supposed to be?"

"I'm a witch," Clarice Appleby giggled. She was normally quite attractive, but was wearing an oversized black robe, a misshapen pointed hat, and had charmed warts onto her nose and chin. "I was talking to a Muggleborn and this is what she thought witches looked like - at least until she found out that she was one. There's a bunch of us dressed like this tonight. Ironic, isn't it?"

Sylvian eyed her dubiously. "You're _green_."

Catherine returned to the common room. Her and Thierry stood at the fireplace and began to talk amongst themselves in low voices. Arthur couldn't catch all they were saying, but he gathered it wasn't in English. They looked quite intimate, yet when Sylvian and Clarice made a move towards the door, as if by unspoken agreement they followed the couple.

"Well, I never!" came an indignant voice from the stairwell. "Spilling out of that dress of hers and shoving her cleavage under his nose."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Hello, Lucille. How long have you been there?"

"Long enough. I wouldn't have thought the Ravenclaws could be such scarlet women. And the way she speaks to him in French - the nerve! That's _our_ language."

"Actually, I thought it was the language of about fifty million French people. And those in the Quebec territory of Canada. And in Northern Africa. And Belgium. And Switzerland. And not to forget Vietnam and a few clusters of islands in the Pacific-"

"_Pah_!" Lucille said, sounding eerily like Thierry. She stomped downstairs and flung herself into the armchair that Thierry had vacated.

"I'm exhausted." Herbie collapsed into the armchair opposite Lucille. "I can't imagine how I'm going to get around in this for the rest of the evening." His eyes lit up suddenly. "Arthur, do you think you could perform a Buoyancy Charm on me?"

"Well," Arthur began.

"Oh, come on, it will make my night a lot easier," Herbie wheedled. "Besides, if you won't do it I'll just ask Lucille or someone else, and she's not half the wizard that you are."

"I should hope so," Lucille said coolly, "given that in actual fact I am a _witch_."

"All right," Arthur acquiesced, "but only because like this, I know it will be performed properly." He performed the charm. Herbie whooped, then grabbed the armrests of his chair as in his exuberance he began to float off it a little way.

"Are you ready to go?" Lucille asked. Arthur nodded. "Good, I'll go with you."

Arthur looked at her in surprise. "Isn't your date coming to get you?"

"No. I'm taking Quentin Maugrim, a Slytherin." Behind her Herbie Jordan made gagging noises. "He's a…family friend of ours. So I'm meeting him in the foyer outside of the entry to the Great Hall. As if I would tell a Slytherin where our common room is!"

"Molly told Blair Zabini," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, but he's pretty decent as far as that house goes. For a start, he's not a pureblood maniac." As they exited the common room Arthur took her arm.

By the look of things they were some of the last to arrive. The students sat clustered at tables in a transformed Great Hall. The regular house tables had been removed, and instead against the walls there were several levels of balconies, their edges blackened and jagged to resemble stalactites in a cave. Arthur spotted Thierry and his date seated with a group of Ravenclaws on the second tier to the right of the entry, his plume swaying from side-to-side as he chatted to her. The main act of the evening wasn't due to perform until after dinner, but a pianist sat on the raised stage that normally held the teacher's table. She appeared to be playing a duet, as every so often a set of keys would lower without her aid. Diana dressed as the Grey Lady was pacing around in the doorway, checking her silver pocketwatch with a tight-lipped expression. She saw Arthur and Lucille and her eyes narrowed.

"I'll leave you to it," Lucille said, giving him a sympathetic look as she noticed Diana. "My dates over there, next to the fountain." Arthur turned and saw a swarthy-looking fellow who he didn't like the look of at all.

"There you are!" Diana grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hall. "The band needs feeding, and third years have to be stamped so that they cannot consume alcohol. I've been looking for you."

"Who would have thought?" Arthur said, a little snidely.

Diana looked at him sharply, but something about his manner warned her not to say anything. "Well, you're more familiar with the third years than I am. You go on and cast the Stamping Charm, check their names off the list-" she tapped her wand in thin air and a clipboard appeared "-and I'll go and offer the band refreshments and check that they have everything they need to have to perform."

Arthur would have quite liked to meet the band, a popular rock group, but he could tell that Diana was struggling to maintain her equilibrium. He took the clipboard and turned towards the first row of tables. A small body collided with his, and he put his arm around the girl to steady her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the girl said nicely. "I wasn't looking where I was going." She was wearing a ballgown and had loose, wavy hair that hung past her shoulders.

"Have you been stamped yet?" Arthur asked her.

"I don't need to be," the girl told him. "I'm Shapelle DuBois, a fourth year. My boyfriends a fourth year as well. We're both Ravenclaws." She turned away and waved to a boy dressed as a mummy, who waved back. "Um, but you might want to check on Herbie Jordan. I saw him get a pint of Butterbeer from the drinks table, and I know that despite what he's telling everybody, _he's_ not a seventh year."

"Too right you are," Arthur muttered. "Thanks for the heads-up, Shapelle." Behind them there were scattered cries of indignation, then someone said, "Herbie, come down from there. You're getting Butterbeer all over everyone."

"I can't!" Herbie cried.

"Not so fast," Arthur said grimly, grabbing one foot and pulling the Gryffindor Chaser back down to earth. "You've been sneaking alcohol from behind my back."

"No, I haven't," Herbie insisted. "Y'see, I didn't see the "beer" on the side, and I just thought it said "butter," so I took some."

"And it took you a whole pint to figure out that it _wasn't_ butter?" Arthur queried sceptically. Herbie at least had the grace to look a little abashed. "I'm afraid your career in underaged alcohol consumption is over, my little friend." He took his wand and gave Herbie a sharp tap on his forehead. A bright red spot appeared. "And one more thing-" He drew back and waved his wand over the third year with a flourish, who collapsed suddenly to the ground as the Leviating Charm was removed. "Have a fun-filled evening, Mister Jordan."

"Aw, this party sucks," Herbie said sourly, shooting a venomous look at his head boy's departing back.

**A**s the night wore on, one participant sat and did all but participate, at least not truly, at one of the tables opposite the Gryffindor side of the Great Hall. Chatter ebbed and flowed around her, leaving her untouched. The alcohol surging in her blood served as a buffer from not only what was happening at this very moment, but what would happen in her future – and her thinking too much on it. Although she knew the fix to be only temporary, and with dire consequences in the morning, she held out her glass yet again.

Across the other side of the room her classmates swooped from one table to another, dipping in and out of the dance floor and laughing among themselves. For the house that produced the most Aurors, the house that would have the cares of the wizarding world dropped upon it in these darkening times, they were a remarkably carefree bunch. How she ached to be a part of them still.

But that was a dream. Reality waited and it was intertwined with snakes.

"I'm coming," she said, and downed her glass.

**T**hough Lucille did not know this, over at one particular senior Gryffindor's table, things were not significantly merrier. Thierry and his date had moved to one of the window seats within a high set of Gothic arches that had seemingly sprung up from nowhere, but were most likely the handiwork of a certain Professor Flitwick. From what Arthur had seen he had not taken to the dance floor once that evening, instead lavishing all his attention on the Ravenclaw May Queen. By his exuberant hand gestures he was evidently telling some sort of funny story about Quidditch, each movement sending droplets of wine sailing over nearby students. Catherine, however, appeared less than impressed and was staring vaguely over at where Zachary Lupin was talking with Winston Shacklebolt.

Catherine was more fortunate than Molly, however. While she was merely bored, Molly was downright miserable.

"Why are you sitting with us?" Belmaine was demanding rudely. "I thought it was usual that the girls sat at their dates' tables."

"Meaning that you don't want at least one of us around, I take it," Blair's glare was icy. "Most likely myself. Well, since Molly doesn't know many people from my own house, I thought she would be more at home if I sat here."

"And _we_ would be more at home if you didn't," Zachary muttered under his breath.

Molly sighed. This had been going on all evening. Belmaine and several of the other Gryffindor boys seemed to have made it a mission to antagonise the Slytherin, and while Blair hadn't started anything, he certainly wasn't trying to finish anything either. She focused her attention on her glass of Elf wine in front of her and mentally counted to ten.

"Now, now, let's just forget about house rivalries for a nigh, shall we?" Ben Thomas suggested easily. Blair and Belmaine continued to eye each other up. "Who's up for a dance?"

Molly turned eagerly to Blair. "Would you mind if I went dancing?"

"If you must," he sighed, waving her away idly. "You'll excuse me if I decline. Dancing is not the domain of a civilised society." Molly scooped up her clutch and ran onto the dance floor after Ben, the jellyfish bobbing on top of his head making him easily visible above the crowd. Professor McGonagall had just discovered Roy Connolly's attempted clone of her and looked none too pleased.

The instant dinner was finished, Lucille had deserted her date and taken to the dance floor. She was swinging her blond head to the beat and dancing with Ravenclaw Alistair Bell without an apparent care in the world. Alistair's date Cordelia Sinistra, dressed as Rowena Ravenclaw and closeted by Winston Shacklebolt, was shooting wary looks over at the couple. It was reasonably well-known that Lucille and Alistair had been an item during their fifth year. Winston meanwhile was unaware that his dance partner's attention was diverted elsewhere and was punching his fist to the music.

_You hit me like a Stunning Charm_

_And I swore I would do you no harm_

_Baby, eventually you I'll disarm_

_Now hold out your little white palm_

With the tall Ben leading the way, Molly managed to push her way through the crowd and reach Lucille. "How are you doing?" she shouted.

"I'm having a jolly good time," Lucille cried. A thin veneer of sweat was visible on her brow and there was a definite slur in her response. "I'm going to live it up, babe. You know," she added, pushing her face closer to Molly's conspiratorially, "I have to do what he tells me because he's my father, but I won't go quietly. I'm going to step on more than a few toes, and not just on the dance floor." There was a sudden surge between them and Molly fell forward, almost knocking her face against Lucille's. Alistair put an arm around each girl protectively.

"Hey now, Alistair, you can't keep these two to yourself," Sylvester Ricketts, the Hufflepuff chaser, was grinning good-naturedly at his Ravenclaw counterpart. "It's not allowed."

"Hey, I contribute to the pool so that I may take from the pool," Alistair said, nodding over at Cordelia and managing to ignore her head tilts indicating that he was to leave Lucille and get over there this instant. Lucille giggled. She seemed only half-aware of what was going on around her. "I'm not breaking any rules. You can have this one." He put his hand in the small of Molly's and gave her a push forward.

"Well, thanks, what flattery," Molly squawked resentfully in Sylvester's arms.

Sylvester took one of her hand and with the ease of a practised dancer, whirled her away. "Don't worry about him," he said amicably. "The Ravenclaw blokes are notorious for having dodgy taste in women. Which is funny, considering what a fox their founder was." He realised what he just said and gave her an abashed look.

"Do you mean Rowena Ravenclaw herself or the one going as her tonight?" Molly asked. Sylvester seemed like a decent chap and she wanted to ease some of his embarrassment.

"Well, I was talking about the _actual_ founder," Sylvester began, pushing his head closer to her ear confidingly, "but now that you mention it, I've had my eye on Cordelia Sinistra for some time. Looks, talent, class, style - she has it all. I mean, if Alistair Bell ever dropped her, I would _so_ be there."

The girl in question was watching Alistair and Lucille with her mouth drawn into an unquestionably disapproving line. It looked like Sylvester wouldn't have much of a wait. She saw the hapless Zachary near to the punch bowl, chatting animatedly with Professor Dumbledore, and for the first time since their date debacle felt sorry for him. "So, who are you here with?" she asked.

"Well, I was going to go with Flora Sprout, but she already had a date, Herbie Jordan," Sylvester explained. "So I'm going with Elizabeth Lee - as a friend." He looked down at her thoughtfully. "You play Quidditch, don't you."

"Yes," Molly said wearily. "I was the one hitting Bludgers into the stands."

"I wouldn't say you played _quite_ that badly," Sylvester assured her. "You've got a powerful arm on you for a girl; you just need to develop your accuracy more." Molly thanked him and cast a wary look over her shoulder at Lucille. Her and Alistair appeared to be getting quite cosy.

Thierry had abandoned his attempt to ensnare the rather fetching Catherine Lee. In lieu of his lap she had now claimed a seat of her own and was shooting wistful looks at the dance floor, punctuating them every so often with a pointed look at Thierry. More than one passing male had cast a similarly wistful look at Catherine, but quickly made a detour once they had noted the dark look on Thierry's face. They weren't to know that the dark look was not intended for them, but to a certain Gryffindor and Ravenclaw couple whose past romantic dalliances appeared to be not entirely resolved.

"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, or do I have to do it myself?" Catherine demanded irritably.

"Of course," Thierry nodded vaguely.

"Of course to what?"

"Whatevair you like."

Catherine's mouth had drawn in a tight, angry line. "You're just nodding and agreeing to everything I say whenever I pause without actually paying attention to _what_ I'm saying, aren't you? Where did you learn that, Pigs 101?"

"Yes – what?"

"Never mind," Catherine snapped. Her line of vision followed Thierry's and her tightened lips all but disappeared into her face. "It's _her_, isn't it? Well, I've had enough. I'm going to dance. A woman doesn't like to be made to feel second-best, you know. And if you'd only asked _her_ in the first place, you would have saved us both a lot less trouble?"

"_Quoi_?" Thierry blinked, but Catherine had already swished off in the direction of the drinks table.

"Oh, I say, there's my team-mate Amos." Sylvester's eyes were darting over the top of the heads pressed around him and Molly. "You know him, don't you?"

"Er, in a matter of speaking," Molly floundered, but Sylvester was already pulling her over to where he and Imogen Page were dancing together.

"Hello, Molly," Imogen said cheerfully, making room for you. "I saw you play in the pre-season friendly a month or so back. You're awfully good." Molly scrabbled for conversation, but fortunately the blonde's attention was diverted elsewhere. "Ooh, he's very defined for a fifth year."

Molly scanned over the top of the crowd. By the turned heads and cluster of conversations breaking out away from the stage, an entrance was indeed being made. A handsome centaur loomed in the doorway with a pretty dark-haired girl wearing a red dress of a fabric that left little to the imagination on his back. Her mouth dropped further open as she recognised the couple.

"Like it?" Will asked, drawing up close to her. "When I found out that Ronnie was going as a Veela, I decided to transfigure myself into the most intimidating beast imaginable to ward off any unwanted male attention." From his back Veronica stuck out her tongue. "The Head Girl herself made the necessary adjustments for me."

Molly took a step back to take in the now four-legged Hufflepuff. The result _was_ spectacular. "I'm surprised Diana agreed to go along with that."

"Yeah, well when I told her that if she didn't make the potion, I would just ask someone significantly less skilled than her and probably end as a Chihuahua, she grudgingly gave in. So here I am. William Edward Zjablomej, thoroughbred."

"Well, you look very impressive. Excuse me. I'm going to get some air." She looked over to where Alistair was half holding Lucille up. "And so is that little madam." Marching over to the couple, she grabbed her friend's arm. "You're coming with me."

"Oh, stop spoiling all my fun," Lucille complained as Molly dragged her off the dance floor. "We _were_ having a good time."

"Alistair may have been. _You_ were making a fool of yourself."

Lucille pushed back against her. Because of the floppiness the alcohol had induced in her, she was proving difficult to keep a hold of. "I don't want to go back to my table."

"I'm not taking you back to your table, you silly girl. We're going back to my table." Blair looked up as they approached. Seeing Lucille in obvious difficulty, he rose to his feet and pushed a chair out for her. "Blair, can you get Lucille a jug of water?" The Slytherin nodded and walked over to the drinks table. "Now pull yourself together, Lucille. You're acting like a crazy person."

"My whole life is crazy," Lucille moaned, burying her head in her hands. "And this party is absolute crap."

"Here you are." Blair returned with a pitcher. He poured some water into a glass that was shaped like a squashed, upside down witch's hat and pushed it under Lucille's nose. "There was pumpkin juice there too, but I suspect it has been spiked. And my housemates wonder why I hate parties. Perhaps your friend here has the right idea."

A cheer rose from the crowd. The lead singer of the Familiars had just shrugged off his jacket. The band broke into a new song and he strutted across the stage, singing:

_Oh I need your love, babe_

_Guess you know it's true_

_Hope you need my love, babe_

_Just like I need you_

_Hold me_

_Love me_

_Hold me_

_Love me_

_I ain't got nothing but love, babe_

_Eight days a week_

There were many nods and whistles from the Gryffindor quarter of the school towards Arthur, who grinned and broke out blushing. Molly and Lucille turned to each other and laughed. "I knew it!" Blair cried. "This is a song that those Muggle imposters, the Beatles, have been passing off as their own! I've been saying it for years."

"That's not true," Lucille protested. Or rather, Lucille slurred. "This is a Lennon-McCarthy original. It says so in the liner notes of the album."

"Oh, you think so?" Blair said snidely. "Let's make a small wager, shall we? Five Sickles says it's the Familiars."

"And five Sickles says that the Beatles wrote it," Lucille retorted. They leant across the table and shook hands, Lucille sending a fork falling to the floor as she did so.

The crowd on the dance floor had swelled and people were regularly pushing against Molly's chair. She walked around to the back of the table and drew up a seat next to Lucille, slipping an arm around her to keep her upright. Blair, surprisingly, had removed a hanky chief from his coat pocket and was dabbing at Lucille's forehead with it, who just as insistedly was pushing his armaway. A cheer from the students arose as the band played the final chords of the song. "And that was the cover of one of our favourite bands, the Beatles!" the singer announced.

"Aha! Pay up!" Lucille cried. She jabbed a finger at Blair and sent a bottle of wine rolling to the floor. Molly and Blair caught her between them as she slid off her chair in the direction of the bottle.

"As much as I like the idea of Gryffindor being docked points, maybe we _should_ take her back to your common room before she gets into trouble - and has more to drink," Blair reasoned. Molly glanced towards Professor McGonagall in the corner of the room, whose attention was fortunately diverted elsewhere, and nodded in agreement. "But unless she can stand on her feet, I don't know how to get her out of here without it looking too obvious."

"Let's keep on pouring water down her throat and see if it makes a difference," Molly advised in an undertone. Fortunately they were in one of the darkened corners of the room and relatively away from teachers' eyes. "I'm going to see if there's any Pumpkin Pasties left for her to eat. Keep an eye on her, will you?"

**D**iana glanced around at the throbbing crowd of students below her and Arthur as they stood on the podium. "Isn't this terrible?"

Arthur looked over at her, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Well, actually I'm having fun," he said.

"I'm not, because I'm being responsible," Diana retorted archly.

"Well, I find it possible to be responsible and let my hair down at the same time – so to speak," Arthur told her, giving the short brown mop on top of his head a facetious tug. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I've done my share of duty for the night. John Lennon wants to boogie."

"_Boogie_?" Diana repeated, her eyebrows shooting up scornfully.

Unlike her housemate, Veronica appeared to be having the time of her life. Her and Will were cutting quite a scene on the dance floor – and the rest of the student body was cutting a wide circle around them in order to avoid Will's flailing hooves. She was having too much fun to notice how dry her throat had become until Will suggested drinks. Once left alone on the dance floor, she bopped with a group of Hufflepuffs and was attempting the shimmy with Sarah Abbott when a finger tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and screamed.

"Aw, did I frighten you, little sis?" the apparition said.

Veronica stared agog at her dismembered older brother, Peter Vector. "Only you would go as Wilfred Elphick," she said.

"Yep, the only wizard to ever get gored by an Erumpent," he boasted, turning around to give her a better view. Veronica's stomach turned. "Pretty convincing, isn't it? I really wanted to go as something genuinely scary."

"You'll never grow up," Veronica scoffed. "How did you get in here anyway?"

"I got an invite," Peter puffed out his chest proudly. For the first time she managed to drag her eyes off her brother's costume to notice the small, dark-haired girl clinging to his side. "This is Hazel Whinlater. She's a seventh year Hufflepuff. I hear Gryffindor/ Hufflepuff couples are all the rage these days," he said, winking at her. "Speaking of, when do we get to meet yours?"

"He's coming over during the holidays," Veronica informed him. "I haven't set a date yet. I'll wait until I know you won't be around, then I'll invite him over to meet Mum and Dad. _You_ won't get a look-in. I'm Veronica Vector, the much-maligned younger sister of this lout," she added to Hazel, offering her hand. "We have Transfiguration and Astronomy together, right?"

"So is he here?" Peter asked, his eyes scanning the crowd. Veronica heaved a sigh. The twit didn't even know what Will looked like, and it wasn't as though he would be wearing a t-shirt saying _Veronica Vector's boyfriend_. "Fucking Merlin, where's the rest of your outfit?"

"This _is_ my outfit," Veronica said, sweeping into a low curtsey. Behind her Willy Widdershins, who was topping up his glass, poured Lilywine onto his robes and jumped back, swearing loudly. "I'm a Veela. I made it myself."

"Well, get back up to Gryffindor Tower and finish off the job," Peter told her. Veronica stuck her chin out obstinately. Hazel gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm not having all the senior boys going around staring at my baby sister's ta-tas."

"Your _baby_ sister?" Veronica echoed indignantly.

"Here you are, they didn't have Nutmeg port so I got Gillywater, hope that's alright-" Will broke off as he took in Peter and frowned. "Is everything okay?"

"Not particularly," Veronica sighed. Will's brow darkened threateningly. "This is my older brother, Peter. Peter, my boyfriend, Will."

For all his earlier bluster, Peter was thankfully civil to Will. He smiled and shook the centaur's hand politely then introduced his own partner, who by the way she was glued to his side was more than just that. Upon finding out the younger boy was a Chutley Canons supporter, the pair became engrossed in conversation.

"Let's leave them for a bit," Hazel said, taking Veronica by her arm and steering her away. "I'm dying for some air, and I need to freshen up."

"Right," Veronica nodded. "Let's stop by the drinks table on the way out though. After all this dancing I need a glass of water." They threaded their way through the students and collected their drinks in silence. Veronica cast around for something to say. "I didn't know my brother was seeing anyone," she said finally.

"Oh, Peter and I?" Hazel shrugged. "We're not going out. We just sleep together when we can, that's all."

"Um, okay," Veronica managed, completely unsure of how to respond to that one. What surprised her was that it was _she_ who was embarrassed, whereas Hazel appeared completely at ease. Her mind was still reeling when, again, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

"May I have a word please, Veronica?"

Veronica rewarded her boyfriend with a beam that fell short when she noticed the expression on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"Outside," he insisted.

Feeling suddenly sober and disquieted, Veronica followed him out beyond the fountain in the entryway and down a little side corridor which she guessed was close to the Hufflepuff chambers. She looked up at Will expectantly.

"Are you ashamed of me?" he burst out.

Veronica's eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you ashamed of me?" he repeated. "Is that why it didn't occur to you to tell your brother that I was only a fifth year? He asked me what kind of job I was planning on getting after my NEWTs," he rushed on. "When I told him that I hadn't even taken my OWLs, he looked _really_ shocked. Care to explain?"

"What am I meant to explain?" Veronica's mind was reeling.

Will pushed his head close to her face. "Why your own brother doesn't know that I am a _fifth_ year!"

"It just…never…came up in the conversation, that's all," Veronica said awkwardly, taking a few steps back. "Why are you talking to me like this? It's making it difficult for me to think."

"More likely you made sure that it never came up in the conversation," Will snapped. Veronica had never seen him so angry before. "You've always been ashamed of me because I'm younger than you. You didn't even want to go out with me at the start because of it. The only one who has a problem with it is _you_. I'm going back inside for the prize announcements. When I talk to you tomorrow, you better have a _really_ good excuse for this!" He turned his back dismissively and his footsteps clattered away.

NEWT worries, prefect worries, Quidditch worries, Lucille worries and alcohol – everything seemed to hit her all at once then. Veronica sank down onto the nearest stone seat and burst into tears.

**T**he dance floor was more packed than most boxes of Bertie Bott's Many-Flavoured Beans. Molly managed to elbow her way through to the snack table, only vaguely aware that the Familiars were performing their unreleased song that she had been waiting to hear the entire evening, "The People Who'll Need You."

_You've got your friends_

_Yeah girl, you've got them a lot_

_But you don't know, girl_

_True to you they're not_

_Yeah, you've got money_

_But ain't it funny_

_That with that you sure ain't got a lot_

_Yeah, with money, girl, you sure ain't got a plot_

_Do you have around you the people who'll need you?_

_Do you have around you the people who'll feed you?_

_Because sugar, once they find they don't need you_

_You'll be what they feed on for sup_

_So look around you, girl_

_See where your privileges have got you found_

_In things money can't buy_

_Yeah, in things there's no currency for_

_Girl, you ain't got a pound_

_I said, girl, you ain't got a Muggle pound_

_To your name_

_So what's your name worth these days?_

_Is it enough to buy your shame these days? _

_Do you have around you the people who'll need you?_

_Do you have around you the people who'll feed you?_

_Because sugar, once they find they don't need you_

_You'll be what they feed on for sup_

The song had ended by the time Molly was able to force her way back to her table, only to locate Blair – without Lucille. "Where is she?" she demanded. "I left her right here – with you!"

"And I left her right here as well, but I had to leave to deal with a scuffle that broke out between a group of fourth years," Blair retorted. He was looking pink-cheeked and very rumpled. "I left her here – with my best hanky chief!"

"And I told you to look after her!" Molly cried.

"Which I did – until something else called my attention," Blair shot back. "I would have never started the evening expecting to nurse a sixth year. I can't be expected to be everywhere!" He glowered down at her, then his expression softened at the look on her face. "We'll find her eventually, Molly. She can't have gone far – in her state. Look, why don't you go and ask that prefect friend of yours if she's seen her and I'll scout around, alright?"

Molly nodded and threw herself back into the throng. "Veronica," she called, dashing onto the dance floor. She tried in vain to scan over the top of the sea of bodies, but the seventh year was nowhere to be found. "Veronica!"

"Don't go anywhere," Cordelia said, clutching her arm. "They're about to announce the award for the best costume."

The head of Gryffindor house, Professor Dumbledore approached the microphone stand, the lead singer of the Familiars making way for him. "Mermaids, Satyrs, Wood Nymphs and Hags," he began, "I am very happy that you were able to join me in our first ever Halloween Ball. I trust that the pumpkin juice was as good as ever. Shortly I will let you return to tonight's entertainment-" the students cheered and the Familiars swept into various bows "-but now I must announce the winners of tonight's costume competition."

The students around her had turned and pressed themselves eagerly towards the front, but Molly wasn't taking in anything. She turned and tried to push her way through the crowd, but the students weren't budging and those nearest to her were giving her indignant looks.

"Each winner will receive a voucher of ten Galleons to Honeydukes in Hogsmeades and go in the draw to win one of the latest models of Cleansweeps. Now, I must begin by saying that out of all the costumes, my personal favourite was Alistair Bell who went as myself-" his younger form waved up at him cheerfully "-but the decision was not left to me. The Head Boy and Girl selected a representative of teachers from each house, who throughout this evening were monitoring not only your behaviour." He gestured towards the seated panel on his left, and the students applauded. Professor Flitwick of Ravenclaw was jiggling up and down cheerfully in his seat and Professors McGonagall and Haricot were smiling pleasantly enough, but Finch sunk into his chair with a half-scowl, as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. "Third place for the girls goes to Sally Pint of Hufflepuff house."

A tiny girl dressed in yellow floated up to the stage, her shimmering wings flapping behind her. Cordelia elbowed Molly, who clapped mechanically.

"Second place goes to Nadia Sombre, of Slytherin house." Molly turned to see a cold-looking blonde slip through the crowd and approach the stage. She didn't see what was so special about the girl's costume, a plain white dress with a train and bell sleeves. Nadia took her gift certificate, curtsied - and transformed into a swan. Molly gasped and applauded loudly, Lucille temporarily forgotten.

"First place goes to our very own Head Girl, Diana McGonagall of Gryffindor House."

Molly's mouth dropped open. She gathered by the whispers that the choice was as unexpected to several other people as it was to herself. Diana reached the stage and extended her arm towards Dumbledore. Instead of shaking his hand, she pushed her arm clean through his chest. There were loud cries and a thud as someone in the back of the hall fainted. Diana had somehow managed to transfigure herself into a ghost. Once the crowd had gotten over its shock, the applause was tumultuous.

"Very well done, Sally, Nadia and Diana. Now it will be my great pleasure to announce the gentlemen. Third place goes to Alan Turpin of Ravenclaw house." An exact replica of Professor Flitwick hopped onto the stage. Dumbledore had to lean down quite a way to present the fourth year with his certificate. "Now the students in the next two positions both did a stupendous job with their costumes, and the judges tell me that it was very difficult to choose an eventual winner. Second place goes to Winston Shacklebolt of Gryffindor house."

The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Winston was well-liked among most houses. The Quidditch player's celebration was a little muted, knowing that he had narrowly missed out on winning, but he still grinned broadly and performed a jig with his cloven feet in time to the claps of a group of his friends.

"First place goes to William Edward Zjablomej of Hufflepuff House."

Cordelia shrieked and pumped her fist in the air in an uncharacteristic fashion. The response from the Hufflepuff contingent was equally raucous. Molly expected Veronica to fling herself out of the crowd and leap into Will's arms for a bearhug, but surprisingly she didn't materialise. At about two feet taller than even the senior boys, Will easily made his way through the crowd. He reached around Dumbledore to shake Winston's hand, then took his certificate from the professor.

"Thank you," Will said, taking the microphone. "I'd like to similarly offer my congratulations to all the other winners. And now my Quidditch captain, Amos Diggory, would like a word." Students next to Molly glanced at each other - this was highly irregular. Molly felt her heart sink as Amos took the stage. She had never seen him look so handsome.

"Now after Dumbledore has participated in tonight's festivities, I have an announcement of my own to make. And for that, I ask your forgiveness." A few people chuckled. "As some of my housemates know, I have been friends with Imelda Page for some time and this year, we became more than friends. It is with delight that I announce that tonight she agreed to become my wife."

Molly's world stilled.

**Author's Notes:** 23 pages. 10,192 words (dies). The bass from downstairs is still thundering away beneath me, so I may as well continue until I get the seventeenth chapter up (rubs eyes).

I know I haven't mentioned a couple of readers' OCs yet. They'll come up in the next chapter.


	17. The Mask Slips

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

Author's Notes: Chapter Sixteen. Killed me. I am so happy to get it over with. Due to all the different little incidents and intertwining p.o.v.s, it was one of the hardest chapters I've ever written and took me almost a year to do.

I'd written most of _this_ chapter before the infamous Black Family Tree was released, so I'm taking some liberties with Alphard's exact age. This fic is already so far into AU territory that I'm going to hell in a handbasket as it is ;-)

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

**Chapter Seventeen: The Mask Slips**

**F**rom the darkened doorway leading into the common room, the second year watched, her sea green eyes taking in the tapestry of events played out before her with a maturity that confounded her tender age. It was likely that she had never truly been a child. Her family didn't encourage the upbringing of one.

The girl frowned. She was tall for her age and despite her slimness, possessed a certain robustness about her, a hard core of toughness and wit that instinctually made all but the stupidest bullies steer clear of her. And due to the array of hexes that she had learned from her older sister on the sly, those who didn't soon came to regret it. She was a tough little girl, and fear was an emotion typically foreign to her.

Yet something made her hands tremble as they came up to tuck a lock not brown, yet not quite blond, behind one ear.

She hated Gryffindors. Hated them, and what they stood for. What they represented and threatened. She had heard her father curse the name of the usurper who had married into their family - the little French whore - he called her. The little French whore who had softened his brother and made him forget who he was. Until recently. Both his subsequent remarriage and his family had refreshed his memory. He hoped that the maggots were feasting on her filthy carcass. She had been an unsavoury influence, an obstacle whose natural state of ill-health had thankfully removed her before it came necessary for the family to organise events themselves. But the damage had already been done, her father claimed. She had ruined their good name and brought her three children up to be Muggle-sympathisers. The eldest had even been Sorted into Gryffindor House, the first occurrence of such in her family for twelve generations. It had taken her father almost half the family jewels to restore the balance of their rightful place in the _true_ pureblood community, to buy back old favours and ties.

The girl blinked, her thoughts returned to the present. The closed door on the seventh year boys' floor chilled even her hardened spine. Her eldest cousin was a disgrace to the family, a betrayer of old blood who proudly paraded her Muggle paraphernalia around. She had lessened their own chances of finding suitable marriages, forcing her father to arrange betrothals with those who would rightfully be considered beneath them in the community.

Yet she still deserved better than this.

Like the other children too young to attend the ball, she had sat on the darkened stairs adjacent to the Great Hall and watched those who were attending enter. She had seen her cousin on the arm of Quentin Maugrim, seen the haunted eyes in the face of a corpse. She had received a glimpse of what it must be like to be born into a family and a way of life now alien to her and trapped into something to which she did truly not belong. In her utmost depths an emotion began to unfurl, an emotion that had been so absent from those who reared her that she at first could not recognise it for what it was. Pity.

The girl gave the door one hard, searching look. Decided upon a course of action, her fear melted away to be replaced by an unerring belief in her own capabilities - and the knowledge that those around her were completely unaware of them. They had entered barely seconds ago, and she figured that she would only have two minutes at most. But the girl could do a lot in two minutes.

Her elder sister was the ruthless one. Her younger sister was the beauty. What she had to offer were two qualities of a significantly lesser value - at least on the surface. Intelligence and grit. Thoughts pulsed through her formidable brain, snatches of plans and schemes skimming over the surface as she grasped for threads of information that may or may not help her cause in this very moment. And as a senior boy stumbled into the common room, knocking over the hat stand and cussing like a hobgoblin, all those fragments leapt together and melded into something tangible.

Cecil Goyle had just entered.

Cecil hesitated. Had he the intelligence to bring his own feelings to this conclusion, he would have realised that he resented the girl and the way that she looked upon him not as a child to an adult, but as adult regarding a particularly slow and stolid infant. That her face remained outwardly placid and docile, yet there was a sense that her eyes swallowed all, absorbing even the most trivial snippets to be brought forth at need. But he lack the means to realise these things, so all he felt for her was a mild sense of dislike without quite understanding why. "What you want?" he demanded.

The girl answered his question with one of her own. "Maugrim brought that Black girl here with him, did he not?"

Cecil heaved off his second boot and stared up at him. Suspicion marred his spud of a face. "What's it to you?"

The girl paused. She was on the edge of an abyss in more ways than one. She had to play this one very, very carefully. She had to make Goyle believe that he had reached this conclusion himself, and to lead anyone with the knowledge of the event to believe the same. Goyle may not have the brains to figure out that he was being manipulated, but Maugrim very much did. "Ah. I see your meaning, if it is not above me to say so," she said, schooling her face into a mask of meekness. "You fear that he is about to undo all the work his father and my uncle have done to repair their relationship."

"Wha'?" Cecil blinked.

"Of course Maugrim has nuptial rights to her, according to the unspoken laws of the True Blood," the girl continued languidly, as if she had all the time in the world. She must not rush things. She could not afford to rush things, because that's when mistakes were made. The girl had not been caught out at something like this since she was nine, almost four years ago, and she could not afford the luxury now. "But they are not married yet. It would be a grave insult to her father if Maugrim's claim was pressed already, and our kind must bond together if anything is to be accomplished. You are so wise."

Cecil's face registered confusion, fear. This was what the girl had been waiting for. She had a trick for which no wand was necessary; a trick learned in for what most other families would be considered childhood, a trick that would certainly be forbidden to her if it was discovered. In this moment of uncertainty, she struck. Pushing all her thoughts together in one potent sliver of concentration, she slammed her hand against Cecil's forehead and thrust the thread at him. The fifth year gasped as pain knifed through his frontal lobe, then his eyes became blank and he fell to his knees.

"Maugrim is about to commit an act that is frowned upon in our society, and considered a crime in most others," she began, her voice now carrying a commanding tone. "Not all see things as we do; our ways must continue to be hidden until the time is ripe. Herbert Black will be very angry when he learns about this besmirchment upon his only daughter. You must prevent your friend from carrying out such a foolish act. You must stop him. As always, you have chosen to do the right thing." The trick was wearing off. One last sliver of inspiration flew at the girl, and she snatched the candelabra off the top of a side table and pressed it into his hand.

Once Cecil had gone, the girl sunk onto the leather settee, pressing her hands against her temples. The trick was far from perfect, yet it still took a lot out of her. It lacked the potency of an Imperious Curse. She could not force others to act, nor unconditionally control their thoughts, and against someone in complete certainty of mind, the trick was as good as useless. What she could do was make someone in an already weakened state of mind more malleable to her advice. She could plant the nucleus of an idea in her victim's mind, but not tell them exactly how to carry it out. In that was it was less powerful and had a smaller chance of success than the Unforgivable, but had the benefit of being perfectly legal. At least until it was discovered. The girl rubbed at the sides of her head, then glanced down the darkened hall. What was keeping the simpleton? She had as good as told him what to do - or come as close to instructing him as she could within the limits of her trick. Stupidity was a double-edged sword. It made people easier to ensnare, but of less use once her trick had worked. She got up and slipped to the side of the room, spreading herself against a wall in a black corner. She had literally handed Cecil the means to accomplish his goal. Once he did so, it would not do to be found.

"Maugrim!" The sound of running feet, then frantic pounding on a door. "I've set my room on fire, Maugrim!" There was a pause, then Cecil added dolefully, "And I don't have my wand with me, Maugrim."

The girl listened. Heard Maugrim calling his unfortunate lackey all manner of names. Heard two pairs of footsteps echoing away from his room. Then she crept along the hall.

Lucille Black was lying on Maugrim's bed, the flickering lamplight crawling over her goose-pimpled flesh. At first the girl thought that she was unconscious, but when she drew closer, she saw that her cousin's eyes were wide with the horrified expression of someone who knew that she was in trouble, but was too drunk to do anything around it.

"Come on," the girl said, sliding her arms under Lucille's legs and lowering them over the side of the bed. "You can't stay here. You made a mistake to come tonight. If you were aware of what you were doing, which I doubt." She heaved Lucille into a sitting position. Lucille swayed on the spot, then her eyes slid half-shut and her head began to fall backwards. The girl dragged her arm back and cracked her palm against the side of Lucille's face. Lucille regained some of her consciousness and stared back at her in shock. "Come on," she repeated, this time with more urgency. "You're in trouble. You can't stay here."

Raised voices were coming from Cecil's room, further down the hall. The girl paused. She was running out of time. She flung one of Lucille's arms over her shoulder and dragged her to her feet, stumbling out the door. Lucille's feet were making walking motions, but her chin was nodding in and out of consciousness and the girl was already carrying most of her weight. How much longer before her cousin's feet starting dragging, and could she cope?

Her eyes fell upon a door and her plan was updated. Throwing the dead weight of her cousin against it, she stumbled through.

"Why, my darling niece," a laconic voice drawled. "You always were my favourite - although the bubblehead, the homicidal hermaphrodite and the blood traitor don't exactly make for overwhelming competition. What is the meaning of this?"

Alphard Black was the youngest of her three uncles. The youngest by a good thirty years, which led to no other option but to his being a belated and very unplanned accident. Because of this he never quite seemed to fit in with the rest of the family, something which he hid through his lackadaisical behaviour and seemingly alike outlook on life. He was the only member of her family that the girl trusted enough not to completely hide the true nature of her character. She trusted him not out of any level of faith in his character, but because she knew that having so few defences of his own, he would be less inclined to reveal hers. An intelligent Black never stabbed a potential ally in the back unless driven to a last resort. You never truly knew what a person's strengths were, or how they could eventually serve your purpose. "I need your help," the girl said.

Her uncle removed his pipe from his mouth. There was no danger of anyone walking in on them. Unlike the classless Gryffindors, the Slytherins did not believe in shared dwellings, the wealthiest families purchasing a separate bedroom and ensuite for their brethren. And since the Blacks had to be seen as keeping up with the Malfoys and Lestranges, her uncle along with the girl and her sister was part of those exclusive families. He directed a scornful look at Lucille, who the girl had unceremoniously dropped onto his bed. "I'm not that desperate," he began, then looked beyond the blond hair to her face. "By blasted Salazar, it's our cousin! Being doing her part to ruin our good name, I take it?" He swung his eyes, which were of a blue so pale that they were almost white, back to the girl. "No Gryffindor has _ever_ set foot in these premises."

"_I _didn't bring her here, and I doubt that she had much to do with events either," the girl held her ground. "She's as inebriated as a Trolloc, of whose doing I have little doubt. Maugrim wanted to partake in his wedding spoils prior to the New Year. We cannot allow that to happen."

Alphard's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean _we_?"

"As soon as I came in here, you were made guilty by association. You're now as involved as I am," the girl declared with no small sense of satisfaction. "If Maugrim catches you and places the Cruciatus Curse on you, won't you feel a lot more satisfied knowing it was for something that you actually _did_ do?"

"You are the scariest little girl I have ever had the misfortune to come across," Alphard told her, shuddering disdainfully. "If you ever were one to begin with, that is." Lucille shifted and groaned. "So what can we actually do with her? She can't stay here. Imagine the cacophony - a Gryffindor in our common areas. Plus I assume that when Maugrim notices her missing, he will be less than impressed."

"We'll dress her up as one of our own and carry her to the Hospital Wing," the girl said. "I was thinking about hiding her in the girls' dorm, but that's the first place where he'll look - and I don't think my sister would exactly be silent about her whereabouts." She thought of her older sister and suppressed a shudder. "I'll go to my room for an uniform. She's about my size. Lock the door after I leave. If someone knocks, don't open it. Instead call out, "Fuck off, we're busy." They shouldn't knock again. I won't knock. I'll open the door using a curse. In the meantime, get some ink and coat it over her hair. It's too distinctive as it is." She opened just enough of the door to allow her lithe body to sliver through and shut it carefully afterwards.

"_Lock the door after I leave_," Alphard mimicked bitterly to himself. "_If someone knocks, don't open it_. Does she think that she has the exclusivity on common sense in this family? What would have been more sensible was to turn a blind eye and leave Maugrim to it. Merlin, that is one scary little girl. She'll be the type of wife who'll make a man the Minister of Magic and lead him to believe that it was all of his own doing." He removed his inkpot from his desktop and scooped his fingers into it. The side of Lucille's face was a flushed rose colour, as if someone had slapped her, and there was wet blood on her lips. "Unfortunate as your situation is, these events once set in place cannot be undone without grave insult and injury to at least one party. You are but a pawn in a game of alliances and power that has been going on long before you drew breath." He looked down at her. Lucille's chest was rising and falling evenly. He began to spread the mixture over her hair.

Alphard knew that the girl would be entering with a lock-breaking charm, but he still grabbed his wand reflexively when he heard a soft "_Alohomora_" and the door creaked open. The girl entered and gave him a sardonic smile when she saw the wand in his hand. He slid it back into his pocket.

The girl saw that he had blackened Lucille's hair, but made no comment. She took the hem of her smock and began to pull it up over head. Alphard looked away, then realised that she was wearing a second uniform underneath. Of course. Carrying one would have been too obvious. Clever girl. Scary girl. She pulled off the first uniform and tossed it onto the bed next to Lucille. "You get her dressed."

"_What_?" Alphard gaped.

"I have to write something. We have precious little time. It's not as if I were asking you to remove her smallclothes." There was a smirk in her eyes as she faced him. "I had no idea that you were such a _prude_, Uncle."

Alphard shot her a malevolent look. He rolled Lucille onto her stomach, carefully so as not to bring the alcohol up and onto his velvet bedthrow, and unzipped the back of her dress. The girl made herself comfortable at his desk and began to scrawl out a note, the nub of his quill scratching mechanically over the parchment.

"I don't think the uniform is a good idea," Alphard ventured.

"How so?" The girl's tone was mild enough, but there was a challenge in her eyes.

"It's an unusual hair length for witches, our kind anyway. Plus Lucille's considered to have the best legs in the school. They're her - _signature feature_ - shall we say." Despite her being an old-blood traitor and the lack of an age gap, it still felt odd to be talking about his sixteen year old niece in that manner - and talking _to _his twelve year old niece in that manner. "Some of the more observant boys may notice. I suggest we shrink one of mine and disguise her as a boy instead."

The girl reflected. It had not been her plan. Not only that, but it would mean that her journey of stealth back to her chambers had been wasted. But any plan was perfect in theory, and any plan could derail in practice. A true schemer knew when to discard old ideas in favour of new due to circumstance. She nodded, saying, "Use my shirt. It will save you the time of having to shrink one of yours. The difference is minute enough to go unnoticed." The scratching of the quill resumed.

Minutes later both were completed. Wearing large grey flannel shorts, clunky shoes and a wool vest that covered what little assets she had, in the dark of night Lucille indeed past muster. Alphard in a moment of inspiration had threaded a green and silver scarf around her neck, half-obscuring her face. The girl took her left side. He took her right. Together they heaved her onto her feet.

Lucille was a bantam, but alcohol made her flop around like a beached whale, maximising her body weight. It was harder carrying her into the hallway than either uncle or cousin had supposed. The girl froze as heavy footsteps and Maugrim's enraged voice rang about above her, but instead he was going into the sixth year boys' rooms.

"We can't take her to the Hospital Wing," Alphard said under his breath.

"Why?" the girl enquired, equally softly. They still weren't at the door. She silently cursed her cousin's extra weight - and her insobriety.

"The prude will ask too many questions." Meaning Madame Pomfrey, the school nurse. The sound of doors banging open came from upstairs. The girl nodded - she was too afraid to attempt a more verbal response.

The girl waited until the entry passage leading into the Slytherin common areas had slid shut behind them until she risked a complete reply. "We have to leave her somewhere where she'll be safe. Do you know the way to the Gryffindor common room?" The girl almost lost her balance. Alphard had stopped in his tracks with a sudden realisation and the girl, continuing along alone with the brunt of Lucille's weight, was struggling to stay upright.

"Not here!" Alphard hissed, attempting to drag both the girl and her cousin backwards. "He would have heard the entry door closing! He'll think it was her - trying to escape! We have to hide!" Together they managed to stumble into an alcove beneath the stairs leading out of the dungeons, the ones who weren't unconscious trying to still their heavy breathing while their hearts galloped inside their rib cages. Several minutes passed. No Maugrim. "He must have been too high up to hear it," Alphard supposed. "We've wasted our time."

"It was a good precaution to take," the girl said unthinkingly. The girl and her uncle stared at each other in surprise. It was one of the few times that she had given a genuine compliment - and he had received one. "So where do we take her?"

Alphard shook his head. "I don't know where their common room is."

"We have to take her somewhere our kind won't find her but hers will. What about the Gryffindor changing rooms?"

"Too far to walk out to the Quidditch pitch. Besides, she'll freeze to death there. What I suggest is-" Footsteps echoed through the hallway. It was too late to hide. In the girl's pocket her hand found her wand. She could sense that Alphard was doing the same.

"What's going on here?" Nicholas Hicks stood in front of them.

"This second year had too much to drink," Alphard spoke up. The girl remained silent. She knew better than to do the talking and draw unnecessary attention - and suspicion - with her superior intellect. "Got into the Firewhiskey some of the sixth years left in the common room. We're taking him to the hospital wing."

"It had better not be _my_ Firewhiskey," Nicholas half-snarled.

"It wasn't," Alphard assured him. "It was mine."

"But you just said-" Nicholas broke off and leant forward, grabbing Lucille's chin and forcing it upwards. "What the hell are you two playing it?"

The girl considering using her trick, but that was something even Alphard didn't know about. She was loath to reveal her full hand until absolutely necessary. And she was damned if her mudblood-loving cousin was going to force her into doing so. "Maugrim and our cousin are engaged," Alphard said eventually. "During the ball he grew a little - _impatient_. We rescued her. This is family business." His final sentence was a half-plea.

Nicholas' gaze swung from one Black to the other. "Where will you take her?" he said eventually. "I doubt any of them will tell you where their common room is, and she's in no state to give you directions." He paused. The girl wanted to look at her uncle, needed the reassurance of a shared look, but didn't want to reveal any sort of weakness in front of Hicks, anything else to make him change his mind. "Take her to the prefects' bathroom. You can't get in without a password. She'll be safe there. Password's _Bandon Banshee_. Blair Zabini told me. Maugrim doesn't know."

"If you know it, how are we to assume that he doesn't?" Alphard pressed.

"Because Blair Zabini says that you and Nicholas are the only two Slytherin boys worth talking to, so if you don't know it, then only Nicholas does," the girl spoke up. Nicholas stared at her, shocked. "The Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff prefects have probably told a few of their friends, but I don't think any of them will give her trouble. Besides, even if the other prefects _have_ told a few Slytherins, because they're _prefects_, the boys that they associate with will not likely to be the genre of boys who will take advantage of an inebriated female."

"Er, right," Nicholas said with a look of grudging admiration directed at the girl. "I'm afraid that this is all I can do for you. My father - he's one of Ruldolph Maugrim's employees - well, you know how it is."

"We understand," the girl said. "You've helped us enough. Thank you." Nicholas looked visibly relieved. He turned and walked back to the Slytherin quarters. Inside the girl felt weary. If you told one person a secret, it would remain a secret. But if you told a second, the secret would spread. And now Nicholas Hicks knew how intelligent and capable she could be. She could almost hear him talking to their housemates already. _Have you ever spoken to that Black sister - the middle one? Mind as sharp as a quill, that one_. Then her sister would know. Her sister would wonder if her own secrets were really that much so. Her sister would start to watch her. Her sister may do more than watch her. She felt her skin grow damp.

They reached the prefects' bathroom and laid Lucille upon one of the seats. Alphard was careful to lay her on her side. If she threw up, Alphard explained, like that she wouldn't choke on her vomit.

The girl gazed down at her sleeping cousin. She had risked a lot to get her to safety tonight - and for what? The rescue had not benefited her in any way. In fact, it had been a grand inconvenience, forcing her to expose things that she would rather not. Later she would reflect upon this being the first unselfish act she had ever committed. "She's not one of us," she said.

Alphard ran a hand through his coal-black hair wearily. "I'm beginning to wonder if we are one of us either, Andromeda."

**A**rthur was awakened by a loud clanging. By the sound of things someone was banging symbols together outside his door in what felt like a much greater volume to his throbbing head than what it actually was. Flinging the covers off his bed and marching to the door, he ripped it open.

"Ah, nice to see you up bright and early," Winston Shacklebolt paused mid-bang and grinned. "Too drunk to Transfigure out of my costume last night," he explained, glancing down at the hooves peeking out of his pyjama bottoms. "Anyway, Dumbledore just told me that he's got a breakfast platter set up in his drawing room for those of us who had too much "fun" last night. I thought being Head Boy, I'd give you first dibs."

"Zanks," Arthur yawned groggily and retreated back into his room, closing the door after him. He splashed some water on his face (nearly knocking over his washstand in the process), and pulled a sweater over his rumpled white shirt and trousers, all that was left of last night's costume. His hair had begun to change as well, lengthening into curls and beginning to lighten from dark brown.

A long table had been set up downstairs, laden with both food and students who sat propped up by the elbows, rubbing their eyes wearily. Arthur grabbed a scone and slid onto a bench next to a Thierry who was looking worse for wear, even by his standards,

Thierry's head rested forlornly in his palms. "I can't believe zat she left me for zat leedle bookworm oo should be een Ravenclaw. When I 'ave finished weeth 'im, 'e weel wish zat 'e was," he finished darkly.

"What?" Arthur yawned.

"I was not payin' attention to 'er an' she left in a 'urry," Thierry scowled. "So I went outside to find 'er an' offer 'er an apology. I needed ter take a peez-" Arthur winced "-so I went into ze prefects' bathroom. Yer remember 'ow ze Quidditch captaine 'as ze password?"

"Yes, ever since I fell asleep in the bath and you woke me up by dive-bombing into it, I have been very much aware of how the Quidditch captains share the prefects' priviledges when it comes to their bathroom," Arthur said dryly. "What's your point, Thierry?"

"I went in zere, an' I saw 'er with zat leedle jumped-up know-eet-all, kissin' 'im!" Thierry spat out, his face a combination of rage and shame. "Eet was all I could do not to, well, nevair mind. My reputation – eet is een tattaires!"

"But who-?" Arthur began. A recollection came back to him of a sixth year prefect lounging by the punch, and a seventh year Ravenclaw heading doggedly in that direction. "_Oh_."

"_Oui, ohh_," Thierry echoed sardonically.

"Now, now," Arthur assured him, fighting back a smile.

"_Je ne le crois pas_. What 'as 'e got zat I 'aven't got?"

"Ears," Arthur supplied. "He _listens_ to girls, Thierry. And might I recommend that in the future you stick to chasing after girls that you're actually interested in?"

"You see, Thierry, you can only get so many results when you treat girls like that," Herbie, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly,told him as he blissfully munched away on a piece of toast. "Women don't want to be made to feel as though they are sexual prey. They want someone who is a good listener and thinks that their opinions are important and treasures what they have to say. They want to be made to feel as though you are paying more attention to them and consider them to be more important than anything else in the room."

"Even the food," Holly told him sharply. Zorah Brocklehurst, who was sitting next to Herbie, gazed wide-eyed at him.

"Oh, yer are so wise," Thierry poo-pooed. "Yer are like a miniature Merlin. Now git out of ma face."

"As much as I thought I would never say this, Herbie does have a point," Arthur said. "You're certainly good at getting the interest of a witch - many witches - quickly, but you don't seem to keep it for long."

"_Quoi_?" Thierry did a double take.

"We've never known you to have a long-term girlfriend," Arthur continued.

"And you got done by the biggest nerd in Gryffindor," Herbie piped up.

"I 'ave lost ma mojo," Thierry said miserably, chasing his eggs around his plate.

One of the small joys of being a male was that you got to laugh at things that weren't even funny. While he was very much Thierry's friend, probably even his _best_ friend at Hogwarts, and felt some level of sympathy for his situation, it was a little reassuring watching one of the Casanovas of the school blundering his way through his love life with even less finesse than Arthur himself. He took a second scone and settled back to enjoy himself. This _was_ nice, just himself, Thierry and some of the livelier characters of Gryffindor house doing their best to ignore hangovers and the effect of little or no help. But something still wasn't quite in place. "We're missing the trio," he realised. "Veronica isn't here, and neither are Molly and Lucille."

"Mollys having a lie-in," Zorah said. "She hasn't gotten out of bed yet. From what Clarice tells me, she needs it. Clarice said she got back at three and Molly was still awake. Zorah Pikestaff from Ravenclaw told her that she didn't really want to go back to the common area, and that her and that Slytherin prefect were arguing with Professor Filch about something. And Lucille never came back last night. Oh, was this unexpected?" she added with a very insincere form of sympathy at the look Arthur and Thierry shared.

"Yes, it was," Arthur told her darkly, wondering exactly what she was implying when she meant _expected_. "Who was the last to see her?"

**L**ucille groaned and heaved herself off the wooden seat. What was she doing lying on a wooden seat in the first place? She moved her legs, and realised that she was wearing shorts. Her head was throbbing worse than the Hogwarts Express motor. Random images bombarded her and she slapped the side of her face as an attempt to clear her head.

She risked raising her eyes to the onslaught of light from the overhead windows and took in her surroundings. This appeared to be the prefects' bathroom, at least from Arthur and Veronica's descriptions of it. Surely it was password protection. How had she got in among the craziness of last night? What had she been doing last night? She raised her hand to scratch her scalp in puzzlement. It came away black. Ink. What _had _she been doing last night? Her alarm rose to panic.

Across the room from her was a series of sinks. She stuck her head under one tap, watching the ink run down the drain below her in black rivulets. Her hair was now wavy and shoulder-length, a pale chestnut shade. The charm was wearing off. She lifted her head. Bleary, bloodshot eyes stared back at her. What _had_ happened last night? Yet more images flooded her, with slightly more outline and shape than before, and she buried her now-wet head in her hands. What was she doing here in a Slytherin boy's uniform? Had she and Maugrim - she shuddered. She certainly didn't feel any different.

As she bent down to adjust her socks, something poked at her side. She dug into the waistband of her shorts and pulled out a folded bit of parchment. Sliding a finger under the crest, she began to read. The first line caught her breath.

_What you're attempting isn't working. If I can see beyond the mask that you try to uphold, then others will eventually be able to. You have the right breeding, but not the right upbringing, to handle Maugrim. Perhaps you don't remember, but last night he tried to take liberties before you were brought here. Which if he ever questions you about it, you weren't. If you marry into his family, your life will be worse than hell. You have already chosen your side. At least stay true to it so that you only betray one party._

_Someone who cares more than they ought to._

The seal had born the Black family crest.

Lucille's breaths ricocheted within her ribcage in short, frantic bullets. She tore up the letter and threw it into a toilet bowl, watching the fragments circling around the rim before plunging down the drain. Who could she tell? Arranged marriages had been going on amongst the wealthier pureblood families for centuries. The teachers would be sympathetic, but incapable of intervening. And to disclose her circumstances would bring shame upon her family. None of her friends would understand. What she had left of them, that is. Her father would say that she was neglecting her duty, disgracing the family name, and her stepmother - well, that did not bare thinking about. And without her weekly flying lessons, all but her last outlet was gone.

All but her last. Her right hand was already fingering the edge of her shorts pocket, where her wand had been stowed, in a comforting manner. It would be so easy. This at least she had control of-

"What's going on in here?" someone cried as the door was flung against the wall with a bang. "What are you doing in here? Don't you know that this bathroom is only for prefects? As to how you got the password, well, I don't know, but I'm certain your house head will get it out of you one way or another. I'm afraid I'll have to report this-"

Lucille rounded on the unsuspecting Sylvian Davies. "_Stupify_!"

She didn't even wait for his body to fall completely to the floor before she started forward, mechanically stepping over him and going out the door. Her feet carried her automatically forward while her mind wandered meaningless. What she had thought, what she had wondered during those dark trips down to the basement, was beyond the powers of anyone to drag out of her with any form of charm. She had learned it was better not to think too much. Particularly about this. The bathroom door creaked as she put her weight against it, then slid open.

"What do you mean by barging in here like that? I was having a pleasant nap and dreaming about having a body again before you came in. But no, nobody cares about what poor old Myrtle wants-"

Lucille withdrew her wand and pointed it at the apparition's forehead. "Stuff off, Myrtle, or I'll forget that you're already dead and hex the living daylights out of you."

Myrtle howled and dived into her toilet bowl. A tinge of regret sparked Lucille, but she shook it off. Spectres didn't have feelings any more than the average Slytherin seventh year did. How she knew that. She tightened her hand further around the wand, feeling its comforting length press into her palm. _This_ was the only thing that felt good. _This_ was the only thing that forced the rottenness out of her.

She approached the toilet bowl. A distant roaring was in her airs. She was already beginning to feel clammy, light-headed. _I don't want to do it,_ she thought desperately, the rational part of her brain recalling at what she was about to do. _I don't want to._ But she knew that she had failed everybody, hurt and slighted everybody who had ever cared about her. _I have to be punished. I have to be pure. I have to-_

"_Bonjour, Lucille_," a deep, musical voice spoke up.

Thierry Delacour was standing behind her.

Lucille's eyes rolled back in her head. She felt a pair of hands snap out and grab her before she collapsed to the floor, then her vision darkened.

**Author's Notes: **I wasn't planning on including Andromeda but she kind of ran away with the first half of the chapter. I should read more Andromeda fic. And I am now officially dead (collapses).


	18. In the Groundskeeper's Hut

**With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin**

Author's Notes: This chapter is dedicated to Kasey Rider, who begged me to put Thierry and Lucille out of their misery. It doesn't quite happen in this chapter, but the path is laid. See the power of reviewing, people?

Chapter Nineteen is nowhere near complete and will take a while to come along.

Disclaimer: Still own nothing. And I snagged a one-liner each from Ang Lee and _Grey's Anatomy_.

**Chapter Eighteen: In the Groundskeeper's Hut**

She had gone down to the dungeons. She remembered that much. She had needed to get away, to do something that would reclaim some semblance of control overher situation. She remembered that as well. But after that things had gotten confused. There had been a shout, a scuffle – and the roaring in her ears as she had pitched towards the ground and the black had closed in around her.

But it was no longer black. Sunlight was peeking under her closed lids. She attempted to raise her head and groaned.

"Don't move," someone said cautiously above her. Warm breath fanned her forehead. She became slowly aware that she was being carried, cradled in study arms. "You had a nasty knock. Just relax and breathe slowly. Do you remember what your name is?"

"Lucille Elodie Black," Lucille said hollowly. She tried to piece together what had happened moments before, but the fragments were dancing just out of her reach.

"Good. And where are you, Lucille?"

"Hogwarts." A jolt of panic shot through her stomach. "I still am, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," the voice reassured her. "We're in the Hogwarts grounds, to be more exact. And I'm taking you to Hagrid's hut." There was something vaguely familiar about the voice. Memories swatted her, blurred remembrances of fumbling in the dark, of trying to shake off hands that slivered around the edge of her hemline. She cried out and attempted to struggle out of the arms.

"Easy there," the speaker said, pulling her closer to him and resting his chin on top of her head in a way that effectively ended the resistance. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm from Gryffindor house, just like you. The common room password is _magnolia_." Lucille relaxed a notch. "Don't be afraid, Lucille. I'm watching over you."

Lucille drifted in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of the solidness of the arms under her, the leaves crunching away beneath her companion's feet. Then she heard a muttered charm and felt herself drift upwards, without gravity up several stone steps leading to a door. "_Alohomora_," her companion said, then his footsteps changed from stone to wood. Her chin rolled helplessly forward as he set her down in a chair. A wand tip was laid against the back of her head, a second charm cast. She felt something cool spread along her scalp and her vision and her thoughts gradually cleared. Her dullness was replaced by panic.

The cluttered, oversized surroundings told her that she was indeed in Hagrid's - the groundskeeper's - hut. And Thierry Delacour was standing in front of her.

Lucille inhaled sharply and attempted to rise to her feet. Thierry waylaid her with a curt "stay put" that worked as well as a Stunning Charm. "You hit your head as you fell over. I still haven't ruled out the possibility of a concussion."

Her stomach twisted into knots. The roaring sound in her ears from earlier was returning. This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to know. In a world where she was increasingly losing autonomy, where even the choice of who to marry had been taken from her, this was meant to be her secret, the one last thing she had to herself. It took most of her remaining willpower to raise her head, to look him in the eye and brace herself for the diatribe. But his expression didn't change. It became clear that he was waiting for her to speak. "How...how did you know where to find me?" she managed to eventually ask.

"I found Sylvian Davies lying outside the door of the prefects' bathroom and revived him." Thierry stated this matter-of-factly enough, but there was a gleam in his eyes, a tightness in the set of his mouth that warned Lucille to tread carefully. Very carefully. "He said that a second year Slytherin boy with curly light brown hair that came down to his shoulder had hexed him after he'd threatened to report him to his house head for being found in the bathroom. He was most indignant about it, saying he was going to deduct points off Slytherin house at every available opportunity for this outrage. I didn't see fit to clarify matters." The voice sounded amused but the eyes continued to gleam with heat. Lucille knew not to be fooled by the voice. "I knew that you had charmed your hair the previous night and it would be returning to its natural state. I had nothing else to go on, but somehow I just had a hunch. So I followed you to what I knew would be the least-used bathroom in the school, and _voila_, here we are."

Something else hit Lucille then, the contrast of the French _voila_ with the English speech. "You don't have an accent anymore."

Thierry crossed to the side of the room, leaning against the side of the massive fireplace and crossing his arms. There was an air of satisfaction to his smile. "That I don't."

Lucille risked a quick flick of her eyes around the room. Thierry was across the other side of the room. She was the closest to the door, which didn't appear to be locked. Which was fortunate because there was no way she could have slid that heavy bolt out of place. Maybe if she got him to drop his guard enough, she could run off. If only her knees weren't shaking so much. "Are we speaking in French?" she asked cautiously.

"My, aren't we optimistic?" An amused smile quirked at Thierry's lips. "Sadly, one month in France doesn't not a bilingual person make. But seven years in Britain can. The language one of us is currently conversing in, my dear, is the Queen's English."

Lucille's mouth dropped open. "You've been able to speak without an accent for all this time?"

"_Oui, bien sur, mademoiselle_." Thierry's grin reminded her of a cat in some Muggle story she had once read, _Malice in Wonderland_ or something. "Well, for the last few years at least. If you had read my written work, you may have realised that I'm a lot more fluent than what people think. Everyone thinks you're either sexy or dumb when you speak with an accent. Gets both the teachers and the birds that way, _ma cherie_."

"You could have at least told Arthur," she said reproachfully.

"A girl needs her secrets."

"He's your best friend. He wouldn't have told anyone."

"Oh really?" Thierry's sleek black eyebrow was raised scornfully. "And have him babbling it out the next time Molly leant down in a low-cut blouse in front of him? Try "no"."

"Does Arthur _like_ Molly?"

"Yes." Surprised amusement filled Thierry's eyes. "Where have you been the last year?"

"Are you still a male?"

"Most definitely."

"Just checking. Maybe I didn't bang my head quite that hard then."

"Would you like proof?"

"Most definitely not." She rubbed her forehead dazedly. It was so much to take in. As if she didn't have enough to think about already. "So let me get this straight. You now speak both French _and_ English better than me?"

"Yah," Thierry shrugged.

"Well, that makes sense. You've always been able to do everything better than me - except wear miniskirts." There was both pride and resentment in the last sentence.

"You never know. Are you sure you don't want proof that I'm still a male? You know, I have deceived you about some rather "big" things that you've only just found out about? Can you really afford to risk it?"

"I'll take my chances," Lucille said sourly. "So why the change?"

"My feigned Gallic charms don't seem to be working on you as well as the many - er, several others before." The grin told her the slip of the tongue had been deliberate. "Which could be why I spend more time thinking about you than I do about them. I thought you would take me more seriously if I spoke without an accent. You see, Lucille, I have some things to say to you."

"Maybe some other time," Lucille said with feigned indifference. Hippogriffs were doing a stampede in her stomach. "I have to finish my Potions assignment."

"That can wait." Thierry folded his arms across his chest. Bad sign. "Your health can't."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The whistling in her ears rose to a sharp pitch.

"Don't play the fool with me, Lucille. You're not one and neither am I. I know what I saw."

The mask. Crashing to the floor. Lucille raised her head, surprised by how calm she felt. Calm, and a queer sense of relief, as if an ongoing responsibility had finally and unexpectedly been removed from her. "Unfortunately you_ did _see. And as you said, you're not an idiot."

"I still don't know why you did it."

"I wouldn't know where to begin," she told him defiantly.

"Try me." Thierry was just as defiant. "We have all weekend."

Lucille looked up at him. She didn't want to say anything. Talking about it would only make things harder, more real, but she could sense that Thierry wouldn't let her leave unless she gave him something. "Mum," she tossed out. "The remarriage. Sirius. Regulus. My marks. It's the only thing I have any control over, that I can rely upon."

Thierry stroked the beginnings of a beard thoughtfully. She had only just noticed that he was growing one. The shadows made him look more sinister, like a noble beast that was on the side of good but not quite tame. She recommenced her study of the wall. "So, let me get this straight," he said finally. "You feel under pressure because you have too many things going on in your life and not enough energy or strength to cope with them. You needed an outlet. So, to create that outlet, you started to do something that robs you of what little energy and strength you _do_ have, making it even harder for you to deal with the demands of your schooling and you new family and creating even more stress, which makes you vomit more. Am I right?" She didn't respond. "Lucille, answer the question."

"Yes."

"Why did you do it?"

"I already told you."

"But why that particular thing? There are other ways to give yourself some space, other options available to you. Armando Dippet drinks. Molly sews. Arthur makes Muggle equipment. I play Quidditch."

His last remark had her on her feet. "I know what else you do to relieve stress!"

"And what is that, Lucille?"

"You have sex! With schoolgirls, even the fourteen year olds!"

Thierry threw back his head and laughed. Lucille picked up a mug to throw at him, but he caught her wrist in time. "Yes, Lucille, I do have sex. And I have been doing so for quite some time. But never with fourteen-year-old girls, not even when I was that age myself. And I have never got anyone pregnant nor slept with someone who I knew really cared about me if that was all I wanted from her. Diana McGonagall, for example."

"But you _did_ sleep with her." But the fire was going out of her, replaced by doubt and taking its energy with it. Pride needled at her, but she sat back down. It was preferable to fainting.

"Excuse me? Lucille, give me enough credit to at least be a gentleman to the point where I remember the names of the girls that I've slept with."

"Yes, you did sleep with her. The morning of Arthur's stripshow, remember? Even though I haven't had your eons of experience, I'm not a complete innocent. I know what it means when you went through almost an entire bottle of Firewhiskey with Arthur, then said you had to do something really unpleasant, _then_ locked yourself in Diana's room with her for almost an hour."

"It was thirty-seven minutes and twelve seconds."

"So, you keep track of things. Quite a casanova, aren't you?"

"Well, then," Thierry said thinly, "I don't see why I should bother to explain to you what really went on between Diana and myself when you seem to think you have such a good idea it's as if you were there yourself."

"So spare me. I'd rather not know." Once again Lucille rose from her chair and turned her back to him, wobbling slightly. Thierry caught her elbow. "Don't touch me."

"You know what, Lucille? Since you seem to be so set on destroying yourself and clearly don't know what's the best for you, I really don't see why I should pay too much attention to what you want. So I'll touch you all I like."

"I'll scream."

"Go ahead. Hagrid's away on business for Dumbledore. The only other people who ever come down here are our friends - and yes, you do still have them despite your best efforts to get rid of them - and they would heartily approve of what I'm doing. And to prove you don't know as much as you think you do, we weren't having sex. We were playing chess."

Lucille goggled. "_That_ was why you needed to drink?"

"Yes. It's the world's most boring game, and Diana doesn't even use Wizarding Chess." Thierry winced. "She says the talking pieces are too much of a distraction. I figured if I was drunk, it would go more quickly."

"Oh," Lucille said. Now she really couldn't look at his face. "I'm sorry."

"So you should be. And I don't think Diana would be too impressed to learn your feelings on her reputation."

Something about what Thierry had said earlier fell into place. "Are you keeping me here the whole weekend?"

"Yes, and as you may or may not recall, Monday is the birthday of one of our founders and therefore a public holiday. So our absences will most likely go unnoticed until Tuesday morning. You see, Lucille, I'm going to keep you here for as long as it takes to get you straightened out, and I can do a lot in three days." Lucille's hand went to her pocket. Thierry noticed the gesture. "Oh no, you won't get any help from there. While you were unconscious, I took the liberty of owling your wand to my father, who will shortly be performing very strong, complex hexes on it to stop you from casting certain spells. That's your biggest resource, gone. So you now have little choice but to deal with what's really bothering you."

"You have no right to do this." Thierry remained unmoved. "_Why_ are you doing this?"

"In battle, the best tactic to defeat your enemy is to cut off all his resources and starve him out. Except in your case I'm only trying to starve you out metaphorically. You've done enough of the other kind as it is. What I'm starving out is the cause of all this."

Lucille raised her chin defiantly. She slid her hands under her thighs to hide their trembling, which would have undone the effect. "You're not scaring me."

"Oh, I haven't even started yet." Lucille gulped visibly. Thierry gave her a humourless smile. "You know who my enemies are, Lucille? Anyone who tries to hurt those I care about. And from the moment I learned you were doing this to yourself, _you_ became my enemy. No one does this to my Lucille, not even Lucille herself. It's your choice, _cherie_. You can have me as a friend, or you can have me as an enemy. I strongly recommend you choose the former. I can be a very formidable enemy, Lucille." He stopped and stared at her. "You're as white as the underbelly of a Hippogriff," he realised. "I don't want to hurt you, girl. I'm trying to help you."

He didn't want to hurt her, but he wanted to help her. She wanted to laugh out loud, but she was worried that it would turn to tears. _Don't you realise, Thierry? _she thought desperately. _They're one and the same. _And while he only had concern for her as a friend and not in the way that she wanted, they would never be anything else. _It's impossible for you to do anything other than hurt me. You can't give me what I need. _"Again, why are you doing this?"

"Because I care."

"Lucky you," Lucille said blithely. Her heart constricted in a desperate plea for him to stop talking like this. But she could be as hard as stone on the outside. That was all she had left. "Are they going to give you a Merlin First Class Order for that or what?"

Thierry's eyes darkened. "You watch your tongue, or I will put you over my knee and paddle your hide like the infantile little first year you are currently being."

Lucille was started to feel very afraid. What was wrong with him? He was changing on her faster than a Polyjuice Potion, and with no idea of what she would be dealing with, she had no idea how to build her defences.

Thierry was eyeing her levelly. She waited for him to unleash a fresh torrent of scorn on her, but instead her knelt before and took her hand. "Lucille," he said gently, "you have lost your mother. And with the remarriage, you've as good as lost your father. Your father still loves you, Lucille, but he can no longer recognise what is best for you. He has been poisoned against you. You are concerned about your younger brother but feel powerless to do anything to help him. You are struggling at school. You are slowly distancing yourself from the people who would help you. And now you have this problem with food when you seem to think that gaining control over it will solve all your troubles. With all of this, is it any wonder that you are finding it difficult to cope?"

Lucille's chin lifted proudly. Some of the hardness had gone back into her eyes. "I don't want your pity," she spat out.

"I'm not offering you my pity!" Thierry cried, losing some of his self-control.

"Shut up, Thierry," Lucille pleaded. Somehow she was on her feet again. "Don't pretend that you care. Unless you can give me what I want, just get out. I don't want to hear it." But an ache that had nothing to do with hunger pains said otherwise.

"And what do you want, Lucille?" Thierry asked coolly.

"I just said it. I want you to get out."

"Really, Lucille?" Thierry had moved closer to her. Her gaze was level with his chest. "Because I'm not feeling that right now. Tell me that you want to be who you're on your way to becoming. Tell me that you want to marry that pureblood maniac bastard, and if I believe you, then I'll leave. But I don't think that I will be leaving despite what you say. Because I know that it's not what you want."

Lucille turned away and studied a crack in the floor. How innocuous floorboards looked, how perfectly plain and laid out and ordinary their lives seemed. Despite getting trodden over all the time, it seemed like a preferable existence. But something had broken free inside of her. She was due to be married in June. Her family wouldn't even wait until after she graduated. She still had those last months, and she could no longer pretend. "Do you know what I really want, Thierry?" Her voice was quavering, husky with unshed tears. "Well, I don't either, but I know what I _don't_ want. I don't want what everyone thinks I do, to grow up in a beautiful house with beautiful clothes and a vault in Gringotts filled with piles of Galleons and beautiful, gleaming diamonds. I don't want to be poor either, but the solution is worse than the problem. I don't want to marry into the kind of family that would give me all of those things because it's just not worth it. And I don't want to be forced into marrying someone that I don't want to marry. But I have no choice. And I don't want you to make things so difficult for me. I don't want you to bring me here and try to stop me from doing my duty and marrying Maugrim and have compassion and concern for me and be unselfish and everything else that a friend should be. I don't want you to be my friend because that's all you'll ever be and it's just not good enough and it hurts. I don't want to want something that I can never have. I don't want to look at you, and be reminded that no matter how much I hate you, I still love you at the same time."

"Lucille," Thierry's face was as white as she felt, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes, you stupid, thick twat." Her words came out in braying sobs. "I love you and I've always loved you and even though I absolutely hate you for it I'll continue to love you!" Then, the last of her dignity gone, she sank into her chair and howled. Her upcoming nupitals to someone who had nearly raped her notwithstanding, she knew that her life could sink no lower than this. For years she had fought to keep this from Thierry, had kept the depth of her feelings hidden from him, and now all that effort was wasted, gone as if it had never existed. This was truly her worst moment.

"But you were always so horrid to me." Thierry was looking down on her shaking form as if he was looking at her truly for the first time. "Whenever I was polite to you, even if I was just asking how your last class was, you always responded with scorn. You started all the hostility. I was never anything but friendly and your answer was to treat me like crap."

"That's exactly it," Lucille bawled. "I didn't want you to be friendly. I didn't want to be your friend. You've never treated me how I've wanted you to. You've only ever acted towards me in the same way you do towards Molly, and Veronica, and Arthur, and then you just go and throw these other girls in my face! And I tried to do the same to you by going out with Alistair Bell but it didn't have any affect on you at all. I was disappointed, but I knew it was expecting too much. Have you ever noticed that I'm generally nice to anyone but you and wondered why that was? No, you haven't, because it only would have occurred to you to examine my behaviour if you had shared my feelings, but because you don't, you just dismissed them in the same way that you dismissed me. Oh Thierry, I don't blame you. I can see that you're a good person, which makes it all the more difficult. But it just hurts so much, you know?"

"Actually, I do, Lucille," Thierry said darkly.

"I never dreamed I could have you. I'm not a complete idiot. You were this beautiful enigmatic being and I was just difficult, awkward Lucille with her stupid crush on John Lennon and her Beatles obsession. I don't blame you for not wanting to be with me. I wouldn't either. Alistair didn't. I'm too much work. My family's bloodline and money is the only reason why I'm able to be wed at all. I'm unsuitable for anyone in any other way-"

"Lucille," Thierry said, "shut up."

Lucille's crying broke off abruptly. She stared up at him, open-mouthed and red-eyed.

Thierry knelt down before her. "I won't tolerate that kind of talk about you from anyone. Especially you. If you believe what you just said about yourself, then you're wrong. And if Alistair Bell believes it, then he's an even bigger idiot that I thought."

"No, he's not," Lucille hiccupped. "He's in Ravenclaw, he's really pretty smart. He only got two Acceptables in his OWLs, and the rest were Exceeds Expectations and Outstandings."

"Alistair exceeded my expectations by having enough taste to ask you out in the first place," Thierry insisted. "And the only other outstanding thing about him is how he's proof of what I've been insisting for years, that the Ravenclaws are smart in terms of getting information out of books and regurgitating it on exams for the teachers to wet themselves over, but are stupid in all other areas of their lives. In fact, the only acceptable thing about how he broke it off with youwas that he put you back on the market. You're right about one thing. I shouldn't make fun of him for that. I should make him best man at my wedding."

"What are you talking about?" Lucille asked.

"When you were talking about how I'm trying to stop you from marrying Maugrim, you accused me of being unselfish," Thierry said slowly. "But the truth is that I am actually being very selfish and doing this for completely selfish reasons. It's not just you marrying Maugrim that I don't like the idea of. Bastard that he is, I would feel as strongly if you had announced your engagement to Alistair Bell. Or Amos Diggory. Or Zachary Lupin. Or even my best friend Arthur Weasley."

"But you like Amos." Lucille was frowning in bewilderment. "And Arthur's like your brother. You two would both die and kill for each other."

"That's true," Thierry agreed grimly. "But if he ever crossed me in this way, well, the door to our friendship would be closed forever. See, what all of those blokes have in common is that they aren't me." He cleared his throat before he spoke again. "Even if he's the most wonderful wizard in the world, I wouldn't care. I object to you marrying anyone who isn't me."

Lucille's mouth dropped open. She was still hiccupping and red faced, but it was muted. They stared at each other for a long time. "You never said anything," she finally responded. "All these years, and I never suspected."

"Who was I to try?" Thierry said bitterly. "Your family are like royalty among purebloods. I'm just some foreign half-bred."

"You're wizard enough for me," Lucille said throatily. "And I promise that you'll never have any reason to object to me marrying anyone who isn't you. If you've have me, that is."

"Of course I will," Thierry said. Then somehow she was on her feet and in his arms and he was kissing the hell out of her. She had never seen the appeal when Veronica had gushed about Will, but suddenly possessed a very acute understanding of what all the fuss was about. She felt light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with her lack of sustenance. This was wonderful. Then Thierry's mouth was cruelly removed from her own and he was laying her down on Hagrid's gigantic bed and staring down at her with horror. "I'm sorry, Lucille," he stammered. "I'd forgotten how sick you were. I shouldn't have done that. I haven't hurt you, have I?"

"It's a good hurt," she shrugged. "You'll just have to kiss me better, won't you?" He obliged, but in a more restrained manner than before, his lips brushing gently over hers as he was careful not to put any of his weight on her. When he was done she shifted over and made room for him next to her and he curled up next to her on the patched quilt. "I'll have to write to my father and tell him that the wedding's off. Oh Merlin!" She jerked into a sitting position and burst into a fresh spurt of tears. "I have to marry Quentin Maugrim," she choked. "It's an arranged marriage. I know your dad's side of the family aren't really traditional, but among the traditional pureblood wizarding families, they're very common. And if I don't do it, then I just know that my father will never let me see Sirius or Regulus again, and then they'll become little pureblood obsessed maniacs like the rest of my family and I'd have lost everything. I couldn't bear to lose my brothers, Thierry. I've already lost my mother. I'd rather that they were dead that like the rest of them. I'd rather _be_ dead than like the rest of them. All that talk about pureblood values, it was just because I was trying to talk myself into it. I thought it wouldn't make things so bad if I could believe what I was saying. But I couldn't. Oh Thierry, I just miss her so much."

"I know you do, _cherie_." Thierry enveloped the now docile girl in his arms. She sank almost gratefully against him.

"She wouldn't have let things get this far. She would have known what to do in this situation."

"And so will you. She taught you well."

"I don't want to marry Maugrim. I wish there was another way. But if I don't, I'll lose my brothers." She wiped her cheeks with her shirtsleeve and fought to keep her voice steady. "They are my family, after all."

Thierry gazed down at her. She was trying so hard to be brave. Even before he had met her, he had seen her as a first year waiting to board the Hogwarts Express and trying so hard not to appear out of her depth. Even then there had been something about that pretty, little girl with her air of melancholy that had made him want to wish her every happiness. And now that happiness was being threatened and despite her insistence that she could manage, he knew that this was too much for her. Her happiness was being threatened, and he was her last chance. He had the idea that the next minute was to be the most important in his life and that he had to weigh his words very carefully. "So the main reason why you've decided to marry Maugrim is so you can stay in contact with your brothers and have them grow up with our ideals?" he asked.

"It's the _only_ reason." Lucille's eyes glowed emphatically.

"Well, don't you think that by marrying into another old family and adopting their way of life on the surface, you'll only encourage them to be the same? The way I see it, if someone they loved and valued went against the family, they'll start to wonder why and maybe even come up with the same solution that you did. Besides, your family won't ever be the only influence that they'll ever have in their lives. When they're eleven they'll go to Hogwarts, and do you think that Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall will start addressing people like Sarah Phelps as mudbloods?" Lucille gave a weak smile. "I know of so many students from families like yours that came to school and changed their minds once they actually met a Muggleborn and saw what they could do. The only way anyone who thinks differently will ever change, Lucille, is if intelligent people like Dumbledore and McGonagall and you start speaking out about it and show them another way to live. You can start with your own family." He was feeling short of breath. He looked at Lucille, wondering if he had gone too far.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes." This second time, it was firmer. "I see what I have to do now. I suppose I've known all along, which is why it was so difficult. I won't marry Maugrim. I'll write a note home telling them. I don't dare to tell them in person; I wouldn't put it past _her_ to make me marry himanywayand convince my father that it's for my own good. How dare she force her way into our family and try to alter our way of life? I think that the biggest reason why she's so obsessed about other wizards' bloodlines is that she's trying to hide the truth of her own. She's a half-blood, you see. That doesn't matter to me, but evidently it does to her. Well, that old hag will soon find that even though my mother's dead, she's not the only feminine influence left in our household. I will go against her every step of the way!" Her hands had clenched into fists and she was breathing rapidly and shallowly. She forced her stomach to unclench and realised how hungry she was. She could still feel the old demons taunting her, but could now see a point when she could control them, not the other way around.

Thierry was watching her carefully. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

She nodded diffidently. "Is there anything we could eat here?"

"Hagrid usually keeps his larder well-stocked. I'm sure I could whip something up. Other than those biscuits of his you could cut a diamond on, that is." Lucille laughed. "Us Frenchman are a little less lost around the kitchen than our English equivalents."

"A stew sounds nice," Lucille echoed. It wouldn't be easy, but she was going to lick her plate clean and dedicate every mouthful to her fight against her darling, beloved stepmother. The bitch. "I've been eating only a little, and making myself throw up when I eat more than a little," she found herself saying. "I don't want to. I know it's stupid, that it's bad for me, that it not only won't make any of my problems go away, but that it will create new ones. But I can't help it. It feels like being thin is the only thing that I'm good at, and that food is the only thing in my life that I still have control over. This is too big for me, Thierry. I need help. I need your help." She had always thought that it signalled a weakness to ask for help, but now she realised that this wasn't so. Nothing that took this much courage could be seen as weak. Her arms still felt shaky but her head was clear with purpose. It came to her that she had never felt more like a Gryffindor.

Thierry gazed down at her. She felt very exposed. She wasn't naked, but she may as well be. She felt her cheeks grow hot. "You look tired," he said. "Still beautiful, but very tired. And you've gotten so thin. We'll have to do something about that. You won't be able to get better here, when you're worried about your NEWTs and have Maugrim and his friends stalking your every move. I think you have to leave."

"No!" she sobbed, clutching at his arm. They had only just got together and now he wanted her to go. It was just too cruel.

Thierry bent down to hug her and let her tears wet his cheeks. "I'm not talking about you going back home," he said gently. "Or staying with strangers. My mother is a qualified MediWitch, or MediVeela, as the case may be." Lucille could see that he was trying, so she rewarded him with a watery smile. "You could always get permission to stay with her. She'll take care of you. Since you're not of age you would normally need your parents' permission, but Madame Pomfrey can overrule them if she feels you need treatment. She _will_ overrule them. She's always been an advocate of the students."

"But your mother doesn't know me either."

"She knows of you."

"What exactly have you told her?" Thierry's impish grin answered her. "Bastard. No, out with it. What _did_ you tell her? Did you tell her about the flying lessons? Halloween? Ooh, you are an absolute bloody bastard." Now she was grinning too. She couldn't recall the last time she had genuinely smiled. For an instant she wasn't a girl who had just lost her mother, whose father had been turned away from her, but a normal sixteen year old worrying about what her boy- _boyfriend? fiancé? future **husband**?_ - had said about her to his mother. Then she thought of her own mother and her grin faded. "It hurts how much I miss her, Thierry. It's an actual physical ache."

"Cry if you need to," Thierry said. The bones of her back felt fragile beneath his hand, encased by a bare minimum of flesh.

"Thank you, but I should be fine. I just wish I had someone to talk about her with who knew her as well as I did. I wonder where she is now, and what's she thinking. I wonder if she's proud of me."

"Well, _I'm_ proud of you, and I'm the most difficult person around to please. What you did today was bloody difficult. It can be hard enough to help someone else sometimes, but to admit when you need it yourself - you were very brave. And for what it's worth, I miss her too."

Lucille looked up at him in surprise. "You barely knew her."

"I knew her through you. You made her come alive for me with your stories of her. When you and Molly were talking at breakfast I was only pretending to read my copy of _The Daily Prophet_. You didn't use to talk to me or tell me anything about yourself and I treasured every Sickle of information you unintentionally threw out. So I feel as though I knew her. As long as you have your memories of her, she won't ever truly leave you. She'll always be there guiding you through her past actions and her advice. You can always learn from her."

"I wish I had more than just memories."

"I know. Well, I don't, actually. But I can try to help you with whatever you ask."

"Will you be going to your mother's with me?" she asked hopefully.

"I don't think so, Lucille." She felt her smile slide of her face and fought to retain it. "I can see them letting you off school, but not me," he continued hurriedly. "You could always stay at school. But I think you realise yourself that if you want to get better, you need a change of environment and to stay with a medical professional."

"That's it." She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I can't leave Hogwarts. There's my schoolwork, and right before my NEWTs year. I'll never catch-"

Thierry cut off the flow of words by pressing a finger to her lips. "That's not important. Your health is your top priority. Your schoolwork is something that can be stopped. In the long run what does it matter if you pass your NEWTs a year later than most of your friends? Besides, it may not even come to that. If your recovery goes well, my mother could tutor you at home. And you can go Hogsmeades on weekends. We'll see each other then. Trust me, you'll love my mother. She'll make you part of the family."

"But what about my brothers? There's a Hogsmeades weekend coming up and I was planning to visit. I can't leave them alone at a time like this."

"You're no good to them in this state," Thierry said gently. Which was probably what her dear loving stepmother had wanted all along. "You need to go away and get better. Believe me, it will probably be better if you're not in the school when your parents-"

"My father and my bitch of a stepmother," Lucille corrected firmly.

"-Your father and your bitch of a stepmother-" Thierry adjusted, and was rewarded by a smile "-find out that you're not going through with the marriage. This will give you time to decide what to do next. My mother is a good person to talk to. Well, she's fierce and she's a Veela, but she's _good_, Lucille. Once my mother decides to get herself involved in your life, your stepmother's days will be numbered. And as for what to do about Sirius and Regulus and making sure that you won't have to marry Maugrim, well, Arthur and I will be able to help with that. Can you remember a single time when the two of us put our heads together and weren't able to come up with something?" Lucille shook her head. "Then let your friends help you. We'll goto visitDumbledore in the morning and see about when you can leave to go to my mother's. He's expecting us."

Lucille exhaled and laid her head against Thierry's shoulder. Just hours ago she had been unable to see a way out. It will still be difficult, but it would be possible. Normally she would have been angry that all these discussions had gone on about her away from her hearing, that these plans had been put in place without her knowledge and consent. But now she just felt cared for – and something more. There was still a chance of a normal life. There was still the dream of marrying someone who she actually loved. She knew that she had things to worry about that should have been more important, other issues to deal with first, but she knew with absolute, bone-deep certainty that it wasn't too late for them.

Now Thierry was disentangling himself from her and slowly easing himself to his feet. "I'm going to make you some food now," he said. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep in the meantime?"

"I don't know," she admitted. Then felt bad, because he looked so worried. "I can try. But I don't know if I can relax. My head is spinning with so many things."

"I may be able to help," Thierry said, crouching on the bed next to her. His hands slid under the hem of her borrowed shirt and he began to pull it upwards. Panicked, her hands jerked towards his to stop its ascendancy, but he gave her such a reassuring smile that she returned them to her sides. "Don't worry, I'm just going to give you a stomach massage. It's what my mother does to help my nephew after he's eaten. Because if a baby's upset, it takes seven hours for its food to fully digest. This helps them to relax." He began to trace his fingers from thewaistband of her shorts to just below her bra in gentle, steady strokes. "You're so tiny that I can't even use my thumb. Merlin, how skinny you've gotten. My mother is a very good cook though. You're going to be in good hands, Lucille…"

He was an uncle? Lucille hadn't even known that. The only person she knew who was an uncle of a similar age was her own Uncle Alphard, and he had clearly been an accident. She suddenly realised what a vast amount there was left to discover about her future husband. She found that she was excited about her future, and that she had almost forgotten what it felt like to look forward to things rather than dread them. And that although she had always sought to be independent and look after herself – and still sought that – that it was rather nice to have people to step in when it all got a bit too much for her to deal with on her own. There was a Beatles lyric along those lines, but she couldn't quite place it. Her eyes gradually drifted shut.

Author's Note: Yeah, I said it wouldn't get resolved in this chapter. I lied. Lucille and Thierry had other ideas. And who else wants to marry him? Come here and pollute my bloodline, you sexy half-breed, you ;-)


End file.
